


The Decay

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Injury, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Kindred/Kinn, London is a Battle Ground, M/M, Multi, Osraighe, PLAGUES, Parasites, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supernatural Elements, Terminal Illnesses, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Violence, Werewolves, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: With the end of the war nearing, a new threat besieges London as the citizens struggle through the onslaught of relentless hardships. Vincent Bonner is a British sniper, recently discharged from service with the knowledge that his time was ticking to the end. With one last fight set before him, he aims to end this new war before his inevitable demise, in a literal fight to the death, with his best friend and closest companion, Vukasin Babic by his side, they will face the tide of battle to thwart this hidden enemy one last time.
Relationships: Beamard O'Connor/Gertrude de Vinke, Bishop Strother & Mary James Francis McKinley, Finn Cormac & Dr. Julien Romily, Vincent Francis Bonner & Vukasin Matija Babic
Comments: 18
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this with the decision to give my and my wife's OC's an opportunity to have their own story to flourish and so I have done just that. It may eventually be published some day so honest criticism is requested. If you enjoy the story, please comment below and let me know what you think! It would mean a lot to me! Thank you! If you have any questions, please feel free to comment as well. 
> 
> This is based on a species of vampire I've dabbled in quite a bit over the years but have yet to properly write a story about them, they aren't your typical bloodsucker and are actually a parasite that forms a symbiotic relationship with their host. I wanted to make my own take on the traditional vampire.

“For the last time, it doesn’t belong in there!” Vincent blurted, the recoil of his rifle pressed against his shoulder where he kept it balanced on the rotting beam. The balcony was far from sturdy but in a pinch it counted. Long dark hair was dampened by the continuously fickle English weather that drizzled in short spurts, small untamed curls pooled around the sides of his face pasted to his wind whipped rosy cheeks. The cold chill leaked into the knees of his pants where it pooled down the back of his rain jacket. His olive skin was thrown into shadows as he pulled his gaze away from the scope to exchange the spent shell for a fresh one.

He returned to tracking the fight with vibrant forest green eyes as his Serbian counterpart darted out of the way of thrown debris. An unfortunate barrel clanged loudly as Vukasin lurched forward, recurve bow in hand with an arrow balanced between his fingers prepared for a shot. He cursed under his breath as he shouted back to the Englishman. “It does. You have no taste Vinny!”

Vukasin scowled as he raised the bow and prepared to let loose a quick shot. The pull and flex of broad shoulders were illuminated under the dying street lights that flickered with a sickly orange hue over the cobblestones. Vukasin’s long ebony hair fell over his face in tangles where it slipped free of the wolf tail bun he ensnared it in before leaving the Osraighe headquarters. Aqua eyes hardened like shards of ice as he sunk an arrow into the naked alabaster torso of the Kindred they were fighting. 

The skin was drawn tight over the lithe and feline-esque body that pounced and lunged at the Serbian hunter. Its long talons grazed the walls in large white swipe marks that grated on the ears. Kindred were an infuriatingly strange cross between an overgrown house cat with a small mythical dragon. Four powerful paws armed with razor sharp daggers perfect for ripping prey to pieces and a long flexible tail with barbed tips for self-defense. The flesh was almost translucent in its pallor and spread thin over the leathery membrane of the bat like wings that sprouted upon its back. They extended to drive small gusts that sent dangerous debris airborne and repelled the hunter’s arrows from meeting their target.

The Kindred snarled as it slowly approached Vukasin, claws extended for the kill as it bore a mouthful of sharp teeth inside of a powerful jaw that could dislocate and swallow an entire limb. The feline-like face was grotesquely pale with blue veins spider webbing out across the skull, throbbing and pulsating beneath the surface with stolen blood.

“Don’t let it bite you, Vuka!” Vincent reminded him with a shout. The Kindred were what the Osraighe Hunters called vampires. The vampires themselves called them Kindred, a name that was interchangeably used depending on how much anyone cared to properly use it. The Kindred they were currently fighting, to Vincent’s frustration, was a female Kindred. The only ones capable of making new vampires with a bite from their venomous fangs. The enlarged venom glands were nestled at the back of the skull, tucked behind and beside the spinal column. The dark blue veins that were thickest on the Kindred’s face led directly to the white milky pools of fluid in soft tissue sacks.

“I know.” Vukasin reached for his belt, prying a small grenade shaped canister off of the strap. He ripped the pin out quickly and threw it in the creature’s face just as it lunged. The canister exploded with a white smoke that flooded the beast’s nostrils and overrode the delicate sense of smell. Using it’s limited vision to their advantage, the Osraighe archer danced around his prey and drew a quick arrow from his quiver and fired it into its back. The creature pawed at its face to disperse the fumes congesting its senses with an ear piercing scream cut through the night. It reared back and roared with its deadly maw split open.

“I just wanted to make sure since you fail to understand the fact paprika does not belong in goulash.” Vincent chuckled as the beast flailed towards the hunter, each clumsy paw swiping the air with disoriented strokes. Vukasin shuffled back with feline grace and bared his teeth into a snarl at the Kindred. It lumbered side to side, moving across the small expanse of water front overlooking a branch of the canal system off the Thames river. Vincent tracked the beast and prepared the shot as Vukasin lured it right into his scope.

Exhaling quietly as he squeezed the trigger and was rewarded with an ear ringing bang overlapped by the dying screech of the Kindred as it gurgled and lurched in a heap across the cobblestones. The black blood poured from constricted veins as the night chill claimed the cold blooded creature. They were lucky the beasts were more lethargic outside of their human vessels, susceptible to the fragile balance of their own biology.

“You need head checked. Must be crazy.” Vukasin turned to address Vincent with a frown knitting his typically grumpy features. He stepped towards the fallen beast and inspected the hole through its skull. He clicked his tongue with a shake of his head and drew the knife from his belt to begin severing the head from the rest of its body. “All you do is complain. I’m beginning to question your sanity. I am vorried for you Vinny.”

Vincent rolled his eyes as he dropped off the ledge of the balcony and landed in a crouch with his rifle slung over his shoulder. His fingers trailed through his hair as the wild unruly curls bounced in front of his forehead and mingled in front of his eyes. He watched as Vukasin began dissecting the beast with the time honed skill of a hunter raised in the fearsome wilderness. It wasn’t a skill found often in the heart of London. Or even much outside of it.

“This coming from the man that would put paprika in his milk if O’Connor allowed it.” He sneered at his friend as the hunter plunged the knife into the ribcage of the Kindred and started to pry it open. The black blood pooled out to splatter and slosh their boots as the bones of the beast crackled and groaned under the force. The stench of decay that settled inside its entrails from a recent feeding was beyond foul and made the sniper gag. The tip of the knife scraped against the interior cartilage and muscle with a sickening scratching sound, ticking bone and stirring up globules of fluid as Vukasin carved out the organs and shoved it down into the pelvic region of the beast.

A solution of flammable liquid was poured inside the chest cavity to mix with the bodily fluids as Vukasin knelt back. Vincent dug the pack of matches from his pocket and lit a few small pieces of newspaper he kept in the front pouch of his jacket and dropped the burning parchment into the chest cavity. The creature lit up like dry kindling as the flames licked at the sinew and papery tissue of the pale organs. The blood boiled and bubbled, sizzling against the grimy street where it evaporated. Flesh turned to ash like the remnants of a burn barrel as the two hunters stood back up and bumped shoulders together.

"Bishop took the victim back to Dr. Romily." Vincent set his elbow to rest on Vukasin's shoulder as he smiled coyly. "You reek of leech."

"And you smell all the time. This is even." Vukasin shot the teasing insult back as he drew away from the body, pulling the sniper with him. 

Vincent gawked and glared at him. "I do not!"

Vukasin stepped closer until they were almost nose to nose and sniffed. He grimaced, lips curled back into a mockery of disgust. "You do. Smell like trash bin. Very dirty."

"I got tossed into the rubbish by the Kinn! Not my fault it's been raining all night." The bickering sadly didn't end at all as the pair left the corpse of the Kindred behind in a smoldering pile of grey ash. It turned to a slurry in the English rain as it began to pour once more, washing away the evidence of their fight. The pair rushed towards the lorry that awaited them at the end of the street and clambered up quickly to slide into the seat, shaking off the droplets that clung to them in small fits. Vincent set his rifle between them, leaned against the front bench against Vukasin's knee. The engine started with a sickly putter of refusal as he turned the ignition a few times before it finally rumbled to life. It lurched forward as the tires squelched down the side road and turned onto the main with a loud rumble and another lurch. 

Vincent cursed under his breath. "Bishop needs to fix this piece of shit."

"Baby has been learning on it."

"Well, fix it first  _ then  _ teach Baby. We need a working transport now, not when McKinley graduates from engineering." Vincent grumbled as he slowed to a crawl and turned on the narrow corners and devilishly dark curves. He hated driving for one and it was worse at night, whether it was during the war or back in the city. A fickle machine was a fickle machine despite the terrain; the only difference is they weren't getting riddled with artillery or ambushed by Germans as they sputtered and bounced towards the darkened streets of Whitechapel.

The city had not been treated kindly during the bombings and the war effort had taken a toll on the civilians. Rations were tight as booklets were handed out to limit food purchases and control the supplies during the shortages. Osraighe was not fortunate enough to avoid the mundane problems as they struggled to stay afloat. Every man had to chip in to keep the hunting ship going and feed their miniature village within four walls.

The building they approached was a tenant slum built up three stories with rickety boards and dusty beams. The roofs were dangerous, chimney stacks leaned crookedly and brickwork was repaired by untrained hands. The Osraighe men spent a good portion of the previous summer piecing it back together from its previous state of disrepair.

There was a small alley that led back behind the building to a section off the street where they parked the lorry and clambered out. The rain had stopped for a brief moment as they trudged through the side gate leading into an enclosed courtyard protected by tall walls to keep the worst of the weather and wind out. Osraighe's second in command, O'Connor, dug up large portions where garden boxes and weeds had overrun the space to now line it with a neatly planted vegetable garden. During the strict rationing this had become their secret Garden of Eden. Below the building was an old store cellar that had been serving double as a bunker during the air raids.

The sturdy concrete walls and spacious rooms allowed for easy conversion into a makeshift interrogation room with additional holding cells. A few hanging lights strewn across the walls to guide their passage through the darkness and some odd fixtures here and there made it a cozy torture chamber. Perfect for unsuspecting Kindred. Or in this case, the unfortunate victim the Kindred preyed on.

Their knowledge on Kindred was limited as hunters expanded and experimented on the creatures to find their weaknesses. Their current and newest weapon was a serum the Osraighe had been testing on Kindred captives to force the vampiric parasites to separate from their host. It worked, to an extent.

There was an examination table in the center of the first room they came to. A large overhead surgical light was currently on, brightly illuminating the subject restrained. It was an odd cross between medical and medieval with the various tools and equipment that was stored. Some days it counted as both as their head physician, Dr. Romily tended to the victims with surgical precision.

Today, the good doctor was simply stabilizing the young woman that had been taken and turned. An I.V line was fed into a vein on her arm to supply her body with the fluids it desperately needs. She was ghostly pale and clammy with several heavy blankets piled on top of her in an attempt to raise her body temperature. Her brown eyes were feverish as she gazed up blankly at the ceiling. Tears streamed down the sides of her face, plastering the dark greasy brunette strands to her cheeks and temple. She was a lot cleaner than Vincent remembered.

The woman had been covered in blood as it oozed from her mouth and poured down the front of her maroon dress. The neat and tidy bun she had her hair tied into was reduced to a disheveled tangle that fell in knotted heaps around her face. She had been frightened when the hunters approached, pleading for mercy as she was cornered in the dockside warehouse. She mistook them for common street thugs. In the end it was a ruse as she attempted to lure them into a false sense of security. It backfired when she realized Bishop was a holy man with God on his side. The Chaplain had her pinned after a short tussle while Vincent administered the serum.

It was painful to watch as it took effect. Vincent felt guilty, he will admit that at least as he watched her writhe and scream in agony. Bishop retreated to a safe distance as the three hunters observed their prey. The best description that Dr. Romily could give involving the effects of the serum on the body was ' _ being skinned alive.' _ That didn't exactly provide confidence to the hunter as he was directed to deliver the potentially fatal blow.

A tall Englishman loomed over the table, a neatly trimmed dark beard crowned a strong jaw. His short brown hair was neatly slicked back. The white lab coat framed muscular shoulders that belied the truth beneath the charming facade. Glacial blue eyes inspected the woman as the doctor took notes on her physical condition. He didn't even need to tear his gaze away from his study to acknowledge the two men that entered the room. His nostrils flared to drag in the scent of rain and the cloying sickly sweetness that accompanied the sniper.

"You're overdue Mr. Bonner." Dr. Romily informed, only lifting his head to glance over his shoulder to greet both hunters. "Mr. Babic." He nodded towards Vukasin who gave a quiet acknowledgment back.

"Figured I'd wait til after the fight, Doc. In case I need the boost if I get bit." Vincent grinned, a lopsided twist of his lips as he approached the table and examined the victim of their most recent hunt. He grimaced at the poor shape the woman was in. "Is she gonna-"

"Live? Presumably yes. She's in a very fragile state but she will recover with time." Dr. Romily explained with a smooth and enticing voice. Vincent had once considered it alluring, similar to the melody that rang beneath the words of male vampires, but Dr. Romily didn't need a parasitic curse to attract attention. His prim and proper personality and his charming smile usually blended well with a velvety voice that soothed and consoled patients. It was all natural, inherited from his lovely mother who was an aspiring singer in her youth.

"Putting off medical care in the event that loss of blood would be eminent is a negligent mindset, Mr. Bonner. That's exactly what brought you into this predicament in the first place, need I remind you." Dr. Romily's stern words were driven forth with the furrow of his brow as he stared disapprovingly at his troublesome ward.

Vincent threw his hands up in defense. "Okay, okay. I surrender." He rustled his fingers through his hair and shook the dampness out of it as a few stray droplets trickled down his neck between the collar of his shirt and his coat. He shivered and sighed. "Sooo the serum worked."

"I suspected so. We were lucky that the first field test was on a fledgling." Dr. Romily busied himself with the cart of tools as he picked out a syringe and filled it with a clear fluid. The quizzical look was a silent question directed at the man to which he elaborated. "I'm just giving her a light sedative to help her sleep. Mr. Mackintosh will stand watch over her and alert me to any change in her status."

The woman squirmed in the restraints when the drug was introduced into her system. Dr. Romily reached a hand out to brush gloved fingers over the back of her knuckles in a gentle petting motion. "You'll feel much better after a proper night's rest." A few minutes stretched by as the drug took hold of her and dragged her into its embrace. She went slack against the table as Dr. Romily adjusted the blankets and tucked them firmly around her body.

"Now, for you." He curled a finger towards Vincent to beckon him into step behind the doctor as they exited the cellar with Vukasin in tow. Above ground, there was the front door leading into the main area where the kitchen and barracks were kept. On the opposite side was the infirmary, bathing room and laundry room. They crossed the courtyard, the open dirt patches of space had turned to mud and scuffed under their boots. Puddles pooled under the wooden table that was often used by the men for tinkering during the daylight hours.

The smell of muck mingled with the rotting trash stench that Vincent often associated with the slums. The scent of poverty that permeated the narrow streets as people piled in on top of one another in tiny unsanitary living conditions. Bodies lying in the streets as homeless and refugees huddled together and endured the elements and sickness. Many unfortunate souls found their way to Osraighe's doorstep, most often they were soldiers returned from the war with nothing left to live for and no purpose or work. Osraighe took them in as it always did for the wayward and weary sniffing at the gates. They had a modest set up as it was, cobbled together with good faith and the promise of hard work. Every hunter had to chip in or they would all crumble.

Dr. Romily's infirmary was nothing fancy. It was a one room set up with two beds tucked behind a privacy curtain, a sink and cabinets lined one side. Basins, bowls, trays and tools set up in preparation for the worst. The room was bright as the lights flipped on to greet them and Vincent was directed to take a seat on one the exam table placed in the center where a similar surgical light from the cellar was set up.

The good doctor removed his gloves and scrubbed down in the sink. As he prepared to check the sniper over, Vincent busied himself by fussing with Vukasin. He beckoned the hunter over where he scowled at the stains down the front of his jacket. "O'Connor's gonna kill you." The words were teasing and light.

"He vould need to find evidence first."

"That sounds like you're going to burn it." Vincent frowned. The devilish smile danced on the young man's lips as Vincent shook his head. "Ask Gertrude. She can salvage it. She helped me the other day after I bled on my quilt."

"Hmmm." Vukasin hummed and stepped away from the table as Dr. Romily approached with the tray of supplies in hand. Vincent passed off his rifle to Vukasin to hold while he unbuttoned the front of his jacket, pulling the fabric free from where it was tucked beneath his belt. It took a bit of wriggling around to get his left arm free then offered it to the doctor.

He skillfully placed the tourniquet around Vincent's arm just above the elbow and cleaned the targeted area with a cloth soaked in antiseptic. A few seconds of probing for a vein before he found what he was looking for. Vincent turned away to focus on Vukasin, wincing as the needle breached the skin.

"You'd think all the times I get poked, stabbed, cut up and prodded, I'd have gotten over this by now." He mumbled, curling his fingers into a fist as Vukasin laughed at his friend's misery. "What's so funny?"

"You big baby. More than Baby." Vukasin teased.

"Don't tell me McKinley doesn't get squeamish like this." He turned towards the doctor with a look of incredulity in his eyes. The man's expression was mildly amused as he nodded. 

"Mr. McKinley isn't bothered at all by it. Neither of the twins were." Ouch, that really hurt. Vincent gave a disgruntled huff.

"I don't believe it. I'd expect Baby of all people to cry over it."

"Everyone has their own phobias, Mr. Bonner. There is no shame in yours." Dr. Romily reminded as he slowly withdrew the needle from the sniper's arm. Vincent grimaced as the spot was cleaned and bandaged properly. "I expect to see you next evening Mr. Bonner. No excuses this time or else I'll inform Mr. Cormac of the problem and have you removed from the rotation."

"I promise. Tomorrow evening. Before or after supper?"

"Before." Dr. Romily affirmed.

"But, that means I have to get up an hour earlier!" He protested.

"How badly do you want to remain on the rotation?" The dark promise made Vincent hiss through his teeth and slouch in submission. The stern look directed at him by the doctor was borderline murderous and pinned the wily sniper in place daring him to disobey orders.

" _ Fine. _ " He groaned. "You win. You're pure evil."

"If it is evil of me to keep you alive longer then so be it. Your condition is delicate Mr. Bonner and since you are so inclined to be as treacherous to your own health as your errant blood is, then I am forced to take the necessary precautions with what I am left to work with. You've brought this upon yourself." Dr. Romily lectured despite Vincent's unwillingness to be tormented so. He eagerly awaited for the doctor to finish his exam and release him from the vice of his cold mirthless stare so that they could run off to the barracks to clean up, get a hot meal and report to Cormac about the success of their mission.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you ever get tired of this Doc?" Vincent asked as he was directed to lie back on one of the beds. Dr. Romily was perched on a stool beside it as he prepared the transfusion line to the sniper's arm and gently inserted it into the vein. He taped it in place, wrapping it carefully around the circumference of Vincent's arm below the elbow then adjusted the bottle to rest beneath as the unusually thick blood slowly accumulated into the container.

"Of being a doctor or…?" Dr. Romily inquired, his eyes never quite leaving his work as he listened to the man engage in his usual rambles.

"Of doing this all the time. The same old motions." Vincent gestured at his arm in answer. "You know it's not going to change the end result so why do you do it?"

"I'm not entirely sure I understand what you're getting at, Mr. Bonner. If you mean  _ why am I helping you manage your condition?  _ Then the answer is simple. It's my job. You are my ward." He stated matter-of-fact. "By managing it in carefully controlled increments of bleeding, I am offering you more time to your already short life."

Vincent shook his head slowly causing his curls to bounce as he gazed up at the water stained ceiling with a sigh. Seemingly satisfied with the silent submission of his charge, Dr. Romily focused on the report in front of him as he filled out the notable occurrences involving Vincent's session. The sniper closed his eyes and draped his free arm across his face to block out the bright lights with the dark material of his sleeve.

Apparently having dozed off without realizing it, he was stirred back to the waking world by a hand jostling his foot. He groaned and lifted his head to peer down at the familiar devilish smile directed at him by the Serbian hunter.

"Get up or your bacon is mine." Vukasin urged. Vincent glanced down at his arm to find the puncture neatly bandaged to signal the end of his treatment. He slowly shoved himself up off the bed and peered around finding the doctor was absent from the infirmary. Vukasin was already holding his jacket out to the sniper as he hurried him out of the building and across the courtyard.

"Good morning to you too, Vuka." Vincent chimed with a teasing tone to his bunk mate. When Vincent left earlier that evening to make his appointment, the hunter was already absent from his bunk and nowhere to be found in the kitchen. Which meant O'Connor had snagged him for some errand duty or another odd task to keep him busy.

They slipped into the entryway of the main building where dozens of men milled about, gathering around the main table to collect their plates and find their seats around the various sofas, chairs and a few rugs on the floor in the center of the living room. There were Osraighe hunters everywhere. Overlooking the main table as he dished out portions to each hunter was the massive bear of a man known as O’Connor, big as a grizzly and resembling a viking of old. Osraighe’s second-in-command and the surrogate Father figure for their ragtag bunch. Most men who joined Osraighe were brought into the fold by him. He had long thick sandy brown hair that was tied up into a haphazard bun and a neatly trimmed beard that hid away a strong jawline. Broad shoulders stretched the dark sweater he wore out until the seams thinned from overuse and the sheer size of the man that towered above all others. Grey eyes softened as he beckoned Vincent towards the table and handed him off the specially made plate to Dr. Romily’s specifications.

A majority of their meals consisted of fish, poultry or lamb, with a mix of some potatoes cooked one of a hundred different ways as they were O’Connor’s speciality. He grew them like a field grows weeds in the garden boxes outside. Turnips, carrots, cabbage and beans rotated through with some kind of scratch made bread to accompany. On the rare occasion, there was bacon or rashers added to Vincent’s plate which he would guard with his life. Today was one of those times.

At the head of the table sat their illustrious leader, Finn Cormac. He was a tall, broadly built man, smaller in comparison to O’Connor but larger than most of the men present in the room, Vukasin and Vincent included. The sniper was closer in age to Cormac and he suspected O’Connor was a few years their elder.

Cormac took a slow pull from his mug as he inspected his inner circle gathered around the table. Raven hair slicked back neatly out of his face with the sides of his skull shaved down around his ears in a tasteful undercut. Vincent noted he finally got around to shaving as the three day old stubble that grew in in ragtag patches on his jaw and chin were now completely clean and smooth, exposing the pale jagged carving of two old scars tracing from the bottom of hs lip diagonally down his chin and hooking under his jaw to disappear at the curve of his throat. It was a fairly recent injury, sometime during the war but nobody really knew what exactly caused it. Cormac wasn’t forthcoming which meant that in true Osraigh style, they put it on the BOARD.

The same board that was erected on the wall behind the kitchen table. A massive chalk board with old and new bets scribbled onto it. Some of the older ones had fishing competitions, races and hunting challenges scratched out and faded. There was a bet to see how long until Vukasin stabs Vincent back when they were first bunked together and the bet on how long until Vincent also known as Leech Bait on the board, is abducted by a Kindred like a traveling snack. There was a bet about how old O’Connor’s adopted rat. Francach is. Yes,  _ adopted. _ O’Connor despises the term  _ pet  _ as it implies ownership.

Vincent noticed a new addition to the board had been updated. He squinted in the crowded space to read it clearly. “Who put up a new hunting challenge?” Vincent turned to Vukasin for the answer. It was Cormac who responded as he set his glass down and nodded towards the end of the table.

“Few of the lads got it in their mind to try baiting.” Cormac didn’t sound as amused by the prospect as he suspected the men did. The thick Irish accent rolled over his tongue and bathed every syllable crisply. His bright blue eyes were tired, crested by the dark bags of sleeplessness that often accompanied a man in charge. He sat lazily in the chair, his legs sprawled out beneath the table and nudging against the Scotsman by his side. Bishop was caught between reading and trying to cut his lamb up on his plate, the dark closely cropped brunet hair combed back into two parts. The bangs hung wistfully across his forehead as doe brown eyes drank in every word. Vincent peered over his shoulder as he passed to find a spot and spied the Chaplain reading something from the church. 

“Good to see you survived in one piece, Vinny.” Bishop spoke loud enough to catch the sniper’s attention and spotted the little twisted smile of amusement on the Chaplain’s face when he startled him. He rolled his eyes and balanced the plate to his other hand as he dropped his palm to land on the man’s shoulder.

“I’d assume that nose of yours would have been buried between the pages of that pamphlet.” Vincent prodded lightly.

“You can’t hide from me, Vinny. Yer scent is a strange one. Pretty sure half of Osraighe could find you across London with it.”

“Which means most Kindred can too.” Cormac pointed out. “You get checked over by Dr. Romily?”

“Yes sir.” Vincent prompted and held out his arm as proof. Cormac nodded in approval and allowed the sniper to wander off to find a seat so both him and Vukasin could finally eat. The aforementioned hunter had already wrangled them a spot on the sofa and practically crashed together with recruit McKinley. A freckled faced nineteen year old ginger with bright starry green eyes full of promise. He was Bishop’s trainee as he molded the young man into the cloth of a holy man. He was still young and impressionable, a stumbling stuttering mess when Vincent teased him but he and Vukasin treated the youth like a younger sibling and even found it amusing when he’d squeak and fumble for his late brother’s rosary when embarrassed or startled. It was this very behavior that earned him the not so flattering nickname of Baby.

“How’s training with Bishop going, McKinley?” Vincent asked around a fork full of fried potatoes, turning his attention to the younger man by his side. Vukasin was between Vincent and the arm of the sofa, using it to balance his plate and avoid getting elbowed by the sniper.

“Good, sir!” His enthusiasm was relentless as always.

“That’s good.” Vincent scraped his fork across his plate as he spoke. His lips quirked up into a smile. “Do you remember what the two types of Kindred are and how to tell them apart?”

“Yes sir!” McKinley preened as he started to repeat the lessons he had learned under Bishop’s watchful eye and guiding hand. “There are male and female Kindred. Female Kindred are noted by the thick blue veins across their scalp to enlarged venom sacks behind the skull. Male Kindred have an altered frontal lobe and no veins across their skull. Females can turn humans into Kindred while males can hypnotize and entrance prey.”

“Good job!” Vincent clapped a hand on his shoulder in praise. “Don’t forget, a male Kindred can occur in a female human and vice versa.”

“Oi! Why the fuck did we start calling them Male and Female then? If they’re not limited to their hosts classifications?” Hainsley, a brutish man with a mane of blond hair that fell over his shoulders in waves. The sides shaved down to the scalp leaving it pale and smooth. He often kept it in a whip like braid but this evening he left it untamed.

In the corner of his eye, Vincent could see the command staff gathered around the table pausing in between bites of their meal to listen in. Cormac’s blue eyes watched in amusement as the men proceeded to bicker and shout back and forth through muffled mouthfuls and jabbing fingers.

“Cause the scientists of Osraighe decided since the ‘female’ Kindred make other vampire offspring it would only make sense!” Another older hunter blurted. Vincent didn’t catch exactly who said it as the men mingled together in close knit groups, bumping shoulders with one another. Accents mixed together in a confusing pile of slang and adopted jive talk that they swapped like soldiers exchange smokes.

“But then why didn’t they just call them something different?” Hainsley asked.

“I don’t know. From what I heard from Dr. Romily, it's based on mammalian biology.” Vincent retorted. “Whatcha thinkin for a substitute?” Vincent was curious now as he sat up straight, eagerly invested into this conversation.

“I don’t know. Maybe the females are actually Bitches and the males are Bastards. That way you can have a Bastard in a female host and a Bitch male.”

“Like Cormac!” Someone else blurted, earning an explosion of laughter that filled the room. Vincent noticed Cormac’s head whip around as the man snarled like a crack of thunder from his chest. It only furthered the growing raucous that drowned out the excited chatter.

“Whoever said that is on river patrols this week!” Their leader barked as the laughter settled to snickers. A few even made their way from the command staff table as Bishop’s shoulders shook and O’Connor was hiding his smirk behind his large palm. He attempted to look busy as he fed bits of bread crust to Francach who was perched on his own little table beside his Papa. A worn out olive green scarf was wadded up for the rat to huddle into and nap in.

Vincent chuckled and glanced back down at his plate to find an errant fork trying to poach his bacon from the edge. The fork led to a familiar hand which Vincent quickly parried with his knife and forced Vukasin back. He scooped up his bacon and shoved it into his mouth with a triumphant look. Vukasin huffed grumpily and leaned against Vincent’s shoulder like a dog begging for biscuits under the table.

“I will die on the day I give up my bacon.” He pointed out.

“Either that or someone vill kill you for it.” Vukasin grunted and leaned back into the cushions of the couch, silently debating his empty plate. “You clear for patrol?”

“As far as I know, yeah. Cormac has final say though.” Dr. Romily wasn’t very thrilled at the idea of Vincent running around the city though he refrained from expanding on why exactly that was. They had discussed alternative ways that he could serve Osraighe without endangering his life and extending it another six months to a whole year, but Vincent would rather die early and fight long than spend his days as a house maid. He was going to fight until the very end and that was all that mattered to him. Be it a beast or his sickly blood that kills him, he’ll do so on his own two feet.

"If he doesn't say anything after supper, then you free." Vukasin stated. Vincent nodded in understanding as he cleaned up the last few scrap bites from his plate. He winced as the tip of his fork dug into the china and made a loud scratching sound. Vukasin growled in response and swatted his shoulder hard enough to make him grunt.

"I know." The sniper adjusted to rock up onto his feet and take their dishes to be set into the sink when a frightfully loud scream erupted from outside. A high pitch sound that could only be described as blood curdling. Vincent shoved the dishes towards McKinley as the recruit and everyone else in the room jolted in surprise. The chairs around the command table scraped and protested as they were shoved haphazardly across the floor. Vukasin and Vincent had already vaulted over the back of the couch and were racing out the door beside them and breaking into the courtyard. The cellar door was left ajar as the men descended quickly with Cormac and Bishop right on their heels shouting orders for everyone else to remain inside.


	3. Chapter 3

Apparently it was a misunderstanding on the hunters part. When they descended quickly into the cellar, they came upon the scene of Dr. Romily injecting a light sedative in an attempt to calm the frantic and hysterical woman. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she wailed about monsters stealing her soul from her. The doctor wiped her tears from her cheeks with a handkerchief and quietly hushed her frantic gasps as she sobbed and choked around her words.

“It’s alright Miss Emelia. You’re safe now.” His rich deep voice smoothed like honey rolling over the tongue as he held the woman’s dainty hand in his large grasp. She curled her fingers around his and accepted the handkerchief as she wiped at her face and tried to calm herself down. “That’s it. You’re doing good, Miss.”

Vincent noted she had been adjusted so she was sitting up now with her back supported. The restraints from before were absent. Her skin was still pale and she looked sickly but her eyes were far more alert if not now bloodshot from her crying. She was slowly recovering from the experience. Dr. Romily described the hypothetical effects of the Kindred on a human body and the backlash of separating them from their host. A few of the test subjects showed signs of physical degeneration the longer the parasite inhabited the host. One of the victims had lost all use of their legs upon being separated but the doctor suspected that was due to the age of the Kindred and how long they had been together. The host is slowly being consumed by the creature as it takes over their body entirely and pulls them closer to a state of a complete and total irreversible transformation. The host is lost and the creature takes over and absorbs every cell and fiber of their victim.

Miss Emelia was a lucky one having been found so recently turned. Her missing person’s file was only a few months old from what Vincent recalled. There were over twenty missing persons in the last year alone scattered throughout London. Some were the victims of entirely human intervention but a majority, something like seventeen cases were Kindred related. At least three of the victims had been found and dispatched by Osraighe. Emelia would be number four. Whether or not these were all related to the same Kinn Pride or multiple that had moved into London during the war with the sudden influx of refugees remained to be seen.

“Babic. Bonner.” Cormac murmured quietly to snag their attention. Vincent glanced towards the older man as he tossed his head in a silent directive towards the door. “Report to O’Connor.”

Vincent nodded, offering one last look towards the woman before he and Vukasin made their way up the steps into the courtyard. The fresh air was nice away from the dank and musty cellar, it hit his nostrils with a warning of rain on the way. The English weather never failed to be so dreadfully melancholy.

With the heads up from Vincent and Vukasin that they weren’t under any sort of threat, he dismissed the men to head out on their usual duties. Patrols were withdrawn until Cormac returned. In the meantime, everyone was given house cleaning assignments that more or less were in dire need. 

Vincent chuckled to himself. “Is this your way of knocking out that hellish To-Do list?” He teased, watching the bear sized man as he busied himself around the kitchen making a pot of tea. Francach was sitting in his front breast pocket, beady eyes peering out at the world around him with a critical scan in between trying to catch his Papa’s stray strands of hair in his tiny paws. O’Connor wasn’t bothered by the gentle tugs from his rat son and poured a cup of tea for himself and one for Vincent.

“Vukasin?” O’Connor called towards the Serbian hunter who sat across from Vincent. His hands were busy scribbling in a book of english definitions with a series of words written in a different sheet of paper. The hunter had to pair the words to the definitions, a fond and somewhat fun game that O’Connor had devised for the men in Osraighe who struggled to read and write, or where English wasn’t their first language. For Vukasin, it was the latter that was the problem as he wrestled with the complicated English alphabet and grumbled at the assignments from O’Connor each week. A good third of Osraighe’s hunters attended the little impromptu classes and worked through the assigned homework.

“Ne.” He answered simply, never tearing his gaze away from the assignment.

“Thanks.” Vincent murmured as O’Connor set his tea before him. He smirked when he realized the Irishman already added a (not so healthy) heap of honey to it just the way he liked it. “You look like you’re stuck on something, Vuka.”

“I vill figure it out.” He spoke determinedly, though the frown that knitted his brows together didn’t encourage confidence in the task.

“Would you like a hint?”

“Ne.”

“You sure?” Vincent prodded before the man gave in with a defeated sigh.

“Fine.” He turned the book around to show Vincent the definition of the word he was supposed to connect it to.

“Remember when we went to that shop in Westminster and we saw the large wide brimmed feathered hats in the windows of that Lady’s store? The little head figures they were sitting on.” Vincent described. He watched Vukasin mentally recall the scene and the tip of his pencil tap over the familiar words. His lips worked around them as he tested the sound, searching for the correct one and shaking his head each time he dismissed it.

“Man-manne…” Vincent nodded.

“You got it.”

“Mannikin” He pointed at the words Mannequin on the paper with his pencil. Vincent nodded in confirmation.

“Close enough. Yeah. That’s what that’s called.”

All three men looked up when a soft feminine voice rang through the air. O’Connor’s mouth quirked into a broad smile of greeting as his wife entered the room. “Sounds like you boys are hard at work today.” She stepped carefully around the piles of dust and dirt that McKinley and Mackintosh had been sweeping up in preparation to hand scrub the living space. Vukasin and Vincent were idly waiting to assist with moving furniture around for it.

The young woman was a tiny voluptuous woman of Dutch origin, known as Gertrude de Vinke, now recently made O’Connor after their pleasant winter wedding. She was well known as Osraighe’s mother as she doted on the men with a fondness in her eyes and ruled the kitchen with an iron fist next to her massive husband. Between the two of them, it was common knowledge that she was more frightening to face down when angry than O’Connor, which was saying something since the Irishman punched an enraged and blood frenzied Kindred in the face with his bare fists to protect a newly acquainted McKinley. A feat that earned him the light burn scar across the top of his cheek overlapping the bridge of his nose from a piece of hot metal that hit him in the face.

Her long brunette hair fell in stylish waves over her shoulders with soft doe brown eyes that shined with so much life and love in them. Her rosy cheeks and kind smile melted the hearts of the men and brought the Great Bear of Osraighe to his knees with the briefest glimpse. Luckily O’Connor didn’t need to kneel to meet the tender kiss of his wife as she approached his chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a loving embrace. Her fingers gently dipped down to give Francach a gentle scratch across the top of his head.

She flitted between double duty of working in the kitchen, helping in the infirmary as an assistant to Dr. Romily or assisting with the light chores with O’Connor during the day.

“Good morning sweetheart.” O’Connor cooed as he leaned in to press a kiss to her belly and snake his massive arms around her tiny waist. “The kettle is still hot if you’d like a cup of tea.”

“Lovely. Thank you.” She smiled and turned her attention to Vincent as her gaze sharpened on the sniper. “Have you been behaving?”

“What? What blasphemy is this? Why does everyone suddenly think I’m causing trouble lately!” Vincent blurted, suddenly very offended by the accusation. She set her hand on her hip as she waited for an answer. The tilt of her head demanded the honest truth which made Vincent feel as if he were being scolded by his Aunt Lily all over again. He hasn’t felt the sting of that ladle since he was a troublesome youth running amok by letting the sheep out of the paddock to run into town.

“Why me? Why aren’t you scolding Vuka?” He gestured wildly over the table at his counterpart. The younger man frowned at him over his notebook and shook his head. Aqua eyes quietly judging him, adding to the series of questionable looks from the trio. At this point Vincent wouldn’t be surprised to look and find Francach judging him from O’Connor’s pocket too.

“Vukasin doesn’t go out of his way to cause mischief.”

“I’m gonna call bull on that one. He is the epitome of trouble. Look at him! That smile says it all.” Vincent accused. Gertrude turned to find Vukasin still frowning in frustration over his notebook as his mouth worked around the words to test if they matched anything he’s heard other people saying. 

She shook her head. “All I see is a bright young man working hard to learn his English.”

“I feel so attacked right now.” Vincent whined as he cradled his chin into his palm and propped his elbow on the table.

“Elbows off the table.” Gertrude chided as she headed into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Vincent huffed out and slouched back against the chair. He heard the snicker of amusement from Vukasin as the hunter smirked in his direction.

“Brat.” Vincent grumbled and reached for his tea to sip at it now that it cooled a little and wasn’t going to burn his tongue off.

Gertrude was just taking a seat when Cormac and Bishop entered from the courtyard. The pair looked troubled, eyes hardened and brows furrowed as they spoke lowly to one another. As they approached the table, Cormac barked the order. “O’Connor, call the men together. We’re having a meeting.”

“Aye sir.” O'Connor rose from his seat and moved towards the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the open room. An iron bell hung from the ceiling with a worn twine rope leading down and wrapped around a hook sticking out of the wood. He gave the twine a tug as the bell rang loudly throughout the building. With the barracks just up the stairs, the men closest heard the toll which was followed by shouting as they knocked on the barracks doors and passed the message along to everyone else. Footsteps pounded the stairs as the massive group descended in a rush from whatever duties they were directed to perform. McKinley rushed out the door to collect the men working outside who quickly stumbled in, kicking boots off at the doorstep and hopping over the sofas and moving furniture to make room for the abrupt summons.

Cormac and Bishop stood at the far end of the living room as they made a mental headcount to endure nobody was missing. O'Connor leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest as he listened in. There were men piled in heaps on the floors and strewn across the sofas, wooden chairs tucked around to be straddled on the edges and a few who preferred to stand in the back. Vukasin set his book down and twisted in his seat to turn eyes on their leader, as the room fell silent.

"Everyone's here?" Cormac growled.

"Aye, aside from Dr. Romily." O'Connor bobbed his head in confirmation.

"He's got his hands full." Cormac answered before turning his attention on the hunters. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him loud and clear. "Miss Emelia is our recently acquired charge. Some of you may already know that she is a former Kinn. The parasite that corrupted her had been forced out by the grace of Dr. Romily's new antivenom."

The men nodded in quiet approval. It was well known that it was still in a testing phase and it was a relief to witness it doing the job it was intended for. Cormac continued, his accent twisting up the syllables of carefully formed words. "Miss Emelia has so kindly informed us that the recent influx of disappearances was not a coincidence as the authorities have stated."

"It was believed, and now confirmed that a new Pride of Kinn has moved into London and made it into their hunting ground. In the chaos of the war and the recent illness plaguing the streets, they have begun taking people in an effort to grow their pack."

Bishop nodded and held a hand up in pause. "If I may, sir?" The Scotmans awaited approval from Cormac who stepped away to give him the floor.

"From what we've managed to put together, the disappearances aren't just localized like most Prides we've encountered. Their territory is unusually large as they've been taking from several different boroughs and a few outlier towns have even been victims of similar missing cases." 

"What's that mean?" Hainsley blurted from his seat.

"It means they are already a massive force and have no issue causing problems with other Kinn in the area. As we all know, they are dangerously territorial." Bishop explained. 

"Could they have been taking people as they found a territory to lie low in, sir?" McKinley's voice was surprisingly more soft compared to Hainsley's gruffer tone. Vincent had to strain to hear him.

"The timing of the disappearances doesn't correlate with that hypothesis, lad." Bishop informed gently. "Miss Emelia confirmed that she had seen and recognized several of the missing folks in the den of the Kinn. All of them had been kept together in a Nursery of sorts as they were watched over by a breeding pair."

A sudden rush of murmurs and chattering filled the room as the hunters took in this piece of information. A lone Kinn was dangerous as is, the older the Kinn the more unpredictable they were. But a 'breeding' pair were a terrifying encounter for the unprepared. Male Kinn hypnotize their prey and lure them away from safety where the female awaits. When she sinks her fangs into a victim, the venom sacks deliver a pleasant cocktail like a drug shooting right into the system. It mingles with the bloodstream and makes the victim a new fledgling to be. They're malleable and helpless as the pair sweeps them up and carries them off to a den where they are nurtured, nursed on the blood of their makers and cared for. It is an incredibly intimate relationship between Kinn to which very little is actually known about what _exactly_ goes on within the dens. Hunters in the past have speculated and not many Kinn remember the early days of their bonding except to recall it as a drug fueled haze of bliss and pleasure.

Bishop and Cormac wrangled the men into silence as they continued to inform them of a change in patrol routes, an increase in group sizes and a stricter rotation. As the meeting dispersed, McKinley, Vukasin, Vincent, O'Connor and Bishop were told to make their way up to Cormac's office for further debriefing on a special lead. The sniper was more than eager to be doing something other than sitting around on his ass, sipping tea and twiddling his thumbs. He practically bounded up the stairs with Vukasin hot on his trail as they rushed past the first floor barracks and up to the second floor where their armory, library and Cormac's office and sleeping quarters was.


	4. Chapter 4

"I haven't worn this since Aunt Lily made me attend her niece's wedding in Scotland." Vincent grumbled as he pawed at the morning suit that was literally the only nice outfit he owned. He was genuinely shocked it still fit him from his early twenties. He was sure he put on a bit of build over the years but then again, he lost quite a bit of weight in the trenches during the war. So maybe he had slimmed down a bit. The pin striped pants fit snug around his waist and the vest was a little tight over his shoulders if he flexed too much.

The vest was a dreary winter grey over a white button up that was a bit too loose over his stomach. The vest did a good job of hiding the parts that were ill fitting now as he adjusted the sleeves on his tail coat and smoothed his fingers over the lapels. A faded green tie was tucked neatly around his throat and situated properly with some assistance from O'Connor. The old top hat that accompanied the outfit was fine with a slight dusting around the edges. His dark hair was wrangled back in wavy half curls that were tucked behind his ears and went wildly in various directions over the nape of his neck.

"You need haircut." Vukasin blanched as he inspected Vincent over with a critical eye. "Look good. Tie brings out your eyes."

"Thank you. My Aunt picked it out for me." He preened proudly as he lifted his head high. "Oh, shite." He blurted as he reached for the matching handkerchief on his bunk to tuck into his breast pocket. The outfit was outdated for the time by about a decade but the purpose of the mission wasn't for fashion, but for information. Unlike most toffs, Vincent didn't have the luxury to spend money on frivolous clothing. He also lacked the desire to do so even when he had the chance. Instead he blew all his money at the German candy shop down the street. They had the best butterscotch hard candies Vincent had ever tasted.

He collected the rapier cane that was leaning against his trunk at the end of the bunk frame and held the rim of the hat between his fingers. Emerald eyes raked over Vukasin’s current visage of beauty that came from the last three hours of preparation. His long black hair was tied up and pinned in place, pleasantly framing his smooth features. A bit of makeup accentuated sharp cheekbones. His jaw was freshly shaved and scrubbed clean of any residue. A light floral perfume filled the air with every deep breath through his nostrils as Vincent ogled the masculine figure that huddled by his side now shaped into a feminine physique fit for a former farm wife. Wide hips framed by the tight fitted corset that flattened the seal fat on his belly. There were at least four layers of fabric between the muscular build beneath the red velvet dress that brought out the color in his aqua eyes and complimented his almond skin tone.

Vincent reached up to help place a gold and amethyst necklace around Vukasin’s throat, gently letting the teardrop gemstones and the fragile interconnected gold chains woven together into a delicate web of beauty crown his neck. He smoothed the chain out with the tips of his fingers and smiled in satisfaction. “Can’t have my best girl be seen without her crown, now can I?”

Vukasin rolled his eyes at Vincent and proceeded to finish getting ready. Vincent stood by and admired the necklace, a small choice piece that his Aunt Lily had given him with the intention that he would one day give it to a woman he would want to court. Sadly, he had little desire to indulge in societal norms. Since his return from war, the news of his impending demise sort of stole any idea of a happy family. No point getting married just to leave a young woman widowed and potentially with child on their own. He wasn’t that selfish or cruel. He hoped she would forgive him in giving the beloved piece to Vukasin. He was the closest thing to a partner in life that he’ll ever have and their relationship wasn’t even romantic. Except during missions like these when they played the part better than any theatre act.

A wide brimmed feather hat and a pair of polished black women’s boots pulled Vukasin's outfit all together with a warm fox fur shawl draped around his shoulders. It was easy for Vincent to be swayed by the amused look in his friend’s eyes as Vukasin, or better known as Visnja when they assumed their undercover alias’, as he donned the long white satin gloves that covered war battered and weather tortured hands, concealing his mother's brass ring as well. Vincent pulled on a similar short wrist pair as he offered the crook of his arm to guide his darling Visnja out the door. “Shall we enjoy an evening on the town?”

“Da, mili.” Vukasin wove his hand through Vincent’s arm, resting his fingers against the inside of his elbow as they made their way down the stairs to the kitchen.

Cormac, Bishop, McKinley and O’Connor were seated around the table with cups of tea set before them in various stages of cool. As the two men entered the room, Vincent offered a charming smile to the bunch. “Gentlemen.” He tipped his head in greeting.

“My my, you clean up nice lads.” Cormac chuckled. It wasn’t the first time he’s seen either man in this sort of get up but Vincent assumed it was easy to forget that the pair, as troublesome and outlandish as they often were with their usual hijinks, could cut a lovely pair when they actually put effort into their disguises.

“Wait, is that really Mr. Babic under there?” McKinley stood from his seat, jaw dropped in genuine shock as he peered closer to Vukasin.

“That is Visnja to you little one.” Vukasin corrected.

“Why didn’t you have Mrs. O’Connor be your date?” McKinley inquired as he made a valiant effort to ignore the sudden rush of embarrassment that flooded his cheeks as he inspected the shocking sight. He was puzzled to say the least, this being his first encounter with Vukasin’s _Visnja_ alias. Of course Vincent and Vukasin were well aware of the consequences of their actions should they be caught. Situations like these would get a man accused and imprisoned for ‘vile acts of homosexuality that defies the laws of God and nature’ but Vincent didn’t give a rat’s ass about it and Vukasin was more than pleased to play the part despite the dangers. If anything, it was fun and exciting as they deceive the unwary around them with their witty display of natural affection.

What the two men had went beyond any sort of romantic relationship. It was similar to a bond between brotherhood and the same undying and comfortable camaraderie often found in the violent depths of the trenches as men huddle together and lean on one another for support and companionship. 

“Because asking Gertrude to be my date is like asking your mother to do so. It’s weird and uncomfortable.” Vincent answered simply. “Besides, with Vuka, I don’t have to worry about whether or not he can take care of himself and we've done this enough times that we know the script by heart.”

“The lads know what they’re getting into.” Bishop assured. “Even if their methods are a wee bit...um…” He waved his hand in the air as if searching for the right word.

“Unorthodox.” O’Connor helpfully provided.

“Aye. A lad dressin up like a lass is a strange sight indeed and all sorts of _unnatural_ but given the fragility of the situation, we can’t risk puttin others in the line of danger. Vinny knows what he’s doing and Vukasin is more adept than any of us at the moment.”

“Understood sir.” McKinley retreated back to his seat as Bishop beckoned him over.

Cormac cleared his throat, glacial blue eyes inspected the pair as they stood prepared for their mission. “So everyone knows what to do tonight?”

“Aye.” The table was full of nods as Bishop answered. “McKinley, O’Connor and I will remain outside of the club and wait for any signs of trouble. If any Kinn leave with a victim, we will follow them to find the den and intercept.”

“Vuka and I will be inside looking for the breeding pair that’s been hunting folks down these last few weeks. Hopefully we get to them before they find a new target.” Vincent added.

“Aye, Godspeed to you all.” Cormac nodded. “If anything happens that deters from the plan, Bishop and Bonner will make the call accordingly. There’s no shame in retreating. Nobody plays hero tonight, am I understood? We can fight another day but not if yer dead.”

“Yes sir.” Vincent sighed as he adjusted his cane in hand and turned to share a devilish smile with Vukasin as they started to depart. The pair casually strolled out towards the street where the Lorry waited. He helped Vukasin up into the seat and climbed in after him. O’Connor slid into the driver’s seat while Bishop and McKinley rode haphazardly on the benches in the back.

Vincent peered over his shoulder through the small window overlooking the front bench as he inspected Bishop. He was dressed down in dark trousers, a navy turtleneck sweater and a black trench coat. In his grasp was a long steel scepter with a cross engraved in bronze on the body. There was a crucifix looking tip that hid a six inch spike that when triggered, springs out to pierce the target mercilessly. Vincent has seen many Kindred skewered on the end as the Scotsman drilled them into the ground and separated their heads from their bodies.

McKinley shared the look of a delivery boy more than a hunter. The knees of his trousers were patched up and the shabby brown jacket was too big on his slight frame, nearly swallowing him up. About the only thing that actually fit him properly was the olive green sweater that was riddled with holes from the lovingly worn outfit. A brown cap pinned his red hair down over his head and kept them in some semblance of neatness beneath the accessory. His freckled cheeks were shadowed by concern as he thumbed over the old bronze rosary of his dearly departed twin brother, Charlie. Vincent remembered that night as Kinn ripped Charlie from Mary’s fingers as the brothers desperately scrambled after one another. The fight was bloody and what started as one lone Kinn turned into an ambush by six. Vincent, Vukasin and Bishop managed to drag the remainder of the group back to Osraighe headquarters where Dr. Romily patched up the wounded and was forced to put down the men who had been infected by their own desperate and terrified requests.

Mary held onto Charlie’s rosary which he had wrenched from his brother’s wrist before the fallen twin had been executed by claws. The painful wails that shook the Lorry on the way back home were deafening as Mary became inconsolable. In the following months, with the support of his superiors and a bit of training, he was able to stand on his own two feet again and learned to move on despite the pain of the loss. It wasn’t a quick fix as Vincent has found the young man enough times curled up in his bunk or huddled in a corner of the library silently crying and holding onto the rosary for dear life as he mourns the ache in his broken heart and the emptiness by his side.

He recalled after the loss, Bishop was moved to share a bunk with McKinley to keep an eye on the lad and O’Connor did his part keeping him busy and social. It wasn’t perfect, Osraighe still had their problems but when one of their own was hurting or facing a rough time, they came together to support one another. It was one of the reasons Vincent found solace in the organization and felt somewhat at ease with this newly defined purpose after his discharge from the war. Having Vukasin around to keep things interesting also helped.

The club was a little hidden niche between Whitechapel and Westminster where all flavors of people liked to slink into to enjoy the less than legal or socially acceptable pleasures of life. It was oftentimes frequented by the depraved upper class and those few in the middle class that had more coin than shame or sense. Miss Emelia had informed them that she had been invited by a coworker to accompany them to the club but somewhere during the evening she had been separated from her date which is when the breeding pair of Kinn struck.

O’Connor dropped them off a couple blocks away allowing the two men to make the rest of the walk without arousing any suspicions. Vukasin assumed the posture of an adoring wife, his fingers caressing the inside of Vincent’s bicep. The sniper’s free hand held the cane as he crept along, feigning a war injury in his shuffled steps. It wasn’t hard to pull off given that he _was_ medically discharged from his service just not for a bum leg or twisted hip. The proof was harder to suss out to the human senses. Kinn had no problem in doing so and neither did a few of Osraighe. Vukasin was no different as he tilted his head and inspected the sniper with a curious glance.

“Nervous?” He prodded gently, a scrutinizing gaze studying Vincent closely.

“Hm, possibly. This will be my first time escorting a lovely lady to such an esteem event. I feel as if my presence would be only subpar in comparison to the other gentlemen who will be in attendance.” Vincent’s lips twisted up into a self satisfied smile as Vukasin shook his head in dismissal. In truth, he was just a touch bit nervous. He wasn’t foolish enough to brush off the danger of the situation they were walking into. He was well aware of the consequences of both should they be caught by Kinn or by human authorities. This place was full of depraved people but they were more than eager for gossip and the chance to leverage others into obedience or publicly humiliate and slander the unsuspecting victims. Vincent didn’t have a sterling reputation to worry about or any fear of jail time but for an immigrant like Vukasin, it could have major repercussions.

"You flatter me, mili." Vukasin feigned flustered amusement but Vincent didn't miss the way he rolled his eyes at the sniper. He chuckled and straightened up as he guided them towards the residence. 

From the outside, it looked like a fancy dance hall, similar to one he had attended in his younger years with a local girl on his arm. It was an attempt by his Aunt Lily to find him a charming young lass to settle down with and hopefully smooth out his rambunctious ways. It didn't exactly work out well, since the girl admitted she had her eye on a neighbor boy down the road and she apologetically broke the news to Vincent. He smiled reassuringly at her and still gave her a fun time to remember him by. He wasn't broken up by it, was actually relieved in the end and they still wrote letters to each other during that Summer. The last he heard she married that neighbor boy and they had a little one on the way.

They mounted the steps up as Vincent helped steady Vukasin on the slippery weather dampened stone. It was chilly out with a slight nip in the night air from the earlier storm that rolled across London's dreary evening sky. It darkened faster than he anticipated but by luck, they managed to catch a pause between spurts of rain. It didn't wrinkle his nose any less but he'd rather the somewhat foul London air than what he anticipated to be a smokey haze within. 

His dread was not lost as they entered the building after bypassing the doorman with the special phrase Emelia informed them of. They were greeted with a closely guarded smile by an elderly butler who took their belongings and directed them further in towards a set of lavish double doors. Just beyond the entry hall led into the ballroom, Vincent scrunched his face up in mild disgust as they passed a smaller door off to the side that was cracked open, permitting a brief glimpse within. The men smoked cigars as the putrid stench of smoke wafted out and made the sniper cough and cover his nose with the back of his hand.

"I hate that smell." He grumbled quietly. 

"Imagine how I feel." Vukasin grunted. "Stronger nose."

"Well then you better brace yourself. I doubt this is gonna be anymore pleasant." Vincent warned as the double doors opened. The air in the next room was thick between the humidity of so many bodies piled together and the pungent odor of perfumes, colognes and that sour undertone of body odor. The wall of scents collided with the men as they entered the room. Men and women alike mingled together with courteous bows and thinly guarded smiles.

Many of the women were decorated in fine colorful gowns as they were whisked across the dance floors or guided to seat themselves around the small tables along the edges of the room. Servants milled about with silver trays of various alcoholic drinks. Vincent politely dismissed an offered glass of wine from a young man near McKinley's age. He was timid, offering nervous glances as if this was his first time. Many of the men that attended were older than mid forties, with only a sparse few who were actually younger than Vincent that weren't part of the help. Their female companions on the other hand looked considerably younger with one bordering on girlish and fragile judging by her petite frame and soft rosy cheeks. Her eyes were wide with shock as she silently listened in to whatever conversation her date and another gentleman were discussing. Both of which appeared deeply satisfied by her innocence as they prodded and smiled pleasantly as rosy cheeks burned a fiery red. The girl looked barely old enough to court or be a mother of any kind which ruffled Vincent's proverbial feathers as her date was at _least_ twice her age.

"I just remembered why I despise coming to places like these. Bloody toffs." Vincent hissed under his breath as Vukasin followed his line of sight and recognized the cause for the spark of disgust in his emerald eyes. He gave Vincent's arm a gentle squeeze to draw him back on task and deter his attention. 

"Do you see anyone strange?" Vukasin asked, tilting his head as if to whisper fondly into the sniper's ear.

"Not yet. Smell anything?" Vincent bowed his head as he murmured.

"Ne." Vukasin shook his head. "Too many scents. Can't find right trail."

"I was afraid of that. Guess we'll have to do this the old fashion way." He smiled broadly. "Shall we dance, Miss Visnja?" Offering his hand to Vukasin, the archer took it politely with a small bow of his head. Vincent easily whisked his date out to the dance floor and joined the masses in the start of a waltz. His left hand held Vuka’s as his right hand rested on his ribs, fingers tracing the curve of his waist where the fabric dipped. Even through his gloves, Vincent could feel the heat radiating off of his partner, drawing a tender smile from his lips as the music started and they fell into easy step. There was very little space between their bodies as they swayed and rotated in their carefully designated space of movement, easily by passing and navigating the dance floor. 

The band was a soothing melody, nothing like the rowdy and boisterous folk music that the boys at Osraighe played on nights of celebration. A taste of their homelands mixed and mingled back and forth as the men hollered, sang out of tune to belted out lyrics far older than any of the men present. Often a confusing mix of Gaelic and English as they jumped, swayed, swung and danced a jig in the midst of drunken revelry and exuberant laughter.

In the sparse few moments of their freedom, Vincent and Vukasin had been educated on the finer points in life by O’Connor and Gertrude as they taught the men how to properly dance. It was a coincidence that they had become the automatic undercover pair for Osraighe scouting missions and reconnaissance. In doing so, Cormac and O’Connor agreed that both men needed to learn the etiquette of the very same places they would be infiltrating which more often than not led them to toff territory, because nothing sinister ever happens in a pub in the slums other than the occasional brawl and once in a while a stabbing. But that wasn’t Osraighe business.

Weeks of practice in their quarters had the two men working in perfect sync with one another, twirling with flourish and navigating even the tightest spaces together with ease until they worked as seamlessly on the dance floor as they do in a fight.

As the whole floor joined into a twirl, the skirts of Vukasin’s dress brushed against Vincent’s knees as they swayed. “You look lovely tonight.” He purred into the Serbian’s ear as Vincent steered him around with gentle hands and close steps. Their bodies moving as one force to the music.

“You flatter me.” Vukasin chided lightly, tilting his head as he admired the sniper with a sly smile breaking on his lips. “See anyone?”

“Only you I’m afraid. But that could change.” Vincent teased with a devilish smile flashed towards Vukasin. He responded by planting the heel of his foot on top of Vincent’s and grinding down on it. The sniper winced and nearly broke the flow of their movements as he babied his foot with a heavy sigh. “You’re no fun.”

“Fun later. Vork now.” Vukasin reminded.

“Fine.” He huffed. “I have been keeping an eye on a couple but nothing concrete to go on.”

“Vhere?” Vukasin’s gaze shifted to focus over Vincent’s shoulder as the sniper adjusted their position to put each potential target in line of sight. 

“Young man, white carnation in his breast, blond hair.”

“Looks sickly.” Indeed he did. Vukasin wasn’t far off. The youth was a guest, his cheeks were sunken from malnutrition as if he’d been ill for a long time. His skin was unnaturally pale as if he’d never seen the sun in all his life. A light dusting of blush on his cheeks gave a little bit of life to his appearance but to the trained eye, it was a pitiful attempt. His hair was almost platinium and the veins, when they got closer, could almost be seen clearly. “Fledgling.” Vukasin stated.

“My thoughts exactly.” He pursed his lips in contemplation. “His face is on the list of missing.” 

“Ve can’t break from mission.” Vukasin reminded.

“I know that and he’s still years too young to cause any harm to anyone. I’d hate to leave him though. He’s freshly turned.”

“Ve tell Bishop. He and Baby can find him later.” Vukasin compromised. Vincent nodded as they turned to follow the group in their motions.

“Woman, seated in the back, pink pastel dress, lavender bow.”

“Da. I found her.”

“Thoughts?” She wasn’t as pale as the other man and certainly not malnourished but the way she moved had an uncomfortable motion to it. Her gaze seemed to have trouble focusing on one target.

“Injury.” Vukasin pointed out. “Or sickness. One side is unnaturally awkvard.”

“Apoplexy.” This wasn’t the first time Vincent had seen a victim of the illness but it wasn’t something that often came to mind. Now that he got a better look at her he could see the signs. One side was delayed. Her date spent much of the time sitting with her as they talked, their fingers threaded together as he brushed the tips over her knuckles. Her lopsided smile secured that she wasn’t the person they were looking for.

The song changed and they adjusted their position to lead off of the dance floor. Vincent kept a hold of Vukasin’s wrist in a dainty grasp until they were side by side and out of the path of other dancers. Vukasin slipped his hand back to cradling Vincent’s bicep as they carefully made their way through in a slow approach, pausing to greet other guests with a pleasant smile.

“Gentlemen.” Vincent greeted with a relaxed smile. His targets involved two men, one with a graying beard and neatly trimmed sideburns already suffering the brunt of age as the dark brown slowly paled. Another man, younger than the first and possibly even younger than Vincent himself looked at him with bored interest. His brow raised incredulously as he inspected Vukasin with a wary glance. "Vincent Bonner, and this is my lovely wife Visnja." Vukasin offered a hand in greeting to which the elderly man politely accepted with a charming yet reserved smile. The younger man was leery of it but covered up his apprehension with a thin twist of his lips.

"Good evening Mr. Bonner. First time? I've not seen you two here before." The older man introduced himself. "I'm Lenard Wellington and this is my apprentice-"

"Michael Holloway."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both." Vincent bowed his head. "We've only recently begun attending." He informed lightly, the casual tilt of his head offered a friendlier presence as Vincent smoothly mingled with the men, drawing information from each with innocent glances and curious eyes. It was a prudent tactic to find the well informed and milk them with the promise of enticing and delicious gossip. Partway through, Mr. Holloway departed to inquire about a dance with a lone woman seated nearby. Mr. Wellington gladly informed Vincent of the intricate web of love lost longing that Mr. Holloway had for a recently widowed woman. Her betrothed had perished in the war.

"Speaking of, if I may be so bold as to inquire, Mr. Bonner." Mr. Wellington steered his attention towards the slight change in subject. "You're a strapping young man still in his prime, did you serve for King and country?"

"I did. I was trained as a sniper in Linghem, France. Sadly I faced an early discharge after an injury nearly ended my life." He spoke softly, his voice dropping to a lighter apologetic tone. "It would seem I survived a war to die on the shores of my home."

"How so?" Mr. Wellington leaned in close to listen, his soft grey eyes alight with intrigue.

"The surgeon who extracted the bullet that nearly took my life discovered that I am dying, sir. I've not long to live in this world." He bowed his head with a sad smile. "I aim to make the best of what little time I have left. Me and my beloved Visnja both."

"My apologies sir. And my condolences." Mr. Wellington implored. "It is a sad turn of events indeed. You make such a lovely pairing. Have you tried for little ones?"

"I'm afraid my illness prevents it." He imparted. It wasn't entirely the _honest_ truth. Vincent had checked, truly, it was a genuine curiosity but in doing so it landed him in Dr. Romily's office as the older man was forced to draw blood from his genitalia to reduce swelling. Getting it there was the easy part, enjoying himself was fun but the problem was, if he hasn't been bled recently, getting _rid_ of it was the hard part.

"I'm sorry, sir. I bid you good luck in your endeavors. If you'll excuse me, I need to find Mr. Holloway. Enjoy your evening." Mr. Wellington smiled politely and tipped his head in parting to Vukasin. "It was a pleasure Mrs. Bonner."

Vukasin nodded in agreement and offered a hand in parting before they were left alone to their corner. Vincent scanned the room quietly to ensure they had some modicum of privacy. Feeling secure, he leaned down until his lips brushed against Vukasin's ear as his hand curled around the archer's back to rest against the small and pull them close together in a less than socially acceptable embrace but this evening was meant for breaking rules. The position made it easier for a quiet conversation without the need to shout or navigate wary glances.

"See anything?" Vincent spoke a little bit above a whisper to be heard over the din of chatter and music. He felt Vukasin's arms wrap around his shoulders as they huddled close in an intimate display. His fingers gently caressed the back of Vincent's head in tender twists of fingers teasing at the haphazard and untamed curls falling over the nape of his neck.

"Da, I think I found them."


	5. Chapter 5

Vincent was settled into a table in the corner of the room where he had an excellent view of the guests as they milled about. Vukasin retired to the lady's room to freshen up and powder his nose, leaving Vincent to occupy himself in the meantime. In the quiet lull between dances, a couple approached to greet him with warm smiles. A man of dark hair and average build. A slender cut jawline and high cheekbones with a cleanly shaven face. His brown eyes had an unnatural shine to them that reflected the lighting of the room like a polished stone. The woman was similar, pale skin and a dainty flow, graceful and delicate like a ballerina. Her steps were feather light and her motions were as fluid as a feline. Sandy blonde hair was carefully bound in an updo and decorated with jade pins. Her emerald eyes glistened as she tilted her head with a gentle smile.

"Good evening sir." The man greeted fondly as he introduced himself. "I'm Charles Hartford and this is my wife Roselyn." She offered her hand as Vincent stood to properly meet the pair. He accepted it and tipped his head with a courteous bow.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both, Mr. and Mrs. Hartford. Are you enjoying the festivities?" Vincent greeted. "My name is Vincent Bonner."

"Are you here alone Mr. Bonner?" Mrs. Hartford asked while her husband fell into relaxed silence. Vincent maintained a cordial smile as he engaged in the conversation. 

"Not at all. My wife Visnja is with me. She went off to freshen up for a moment. I can introduce you both when she returns." He offered gently.

"That would be lovely, Mr. Bonner." She purred. Something about her words was unusual as she carefully crafted each syllable around her tongue. She lacked any sort of accent that he would recognize, a neutral tone wrapped around her words. Her eyes never broke their determined contact, as if her gaze was casting lines towards him and drawing a net over his thoughts. He felt the music fade out, a muted sound as if his ears were stuffed with cotton. Her hand never released the grip on his as their fingers mingled and wove together in something far more scandalous. Especially with her husband so close at hand.

"Would you like to dance with me, Mr. Bonner?" Vincent didn't even realize when his foot moved on it's own, cutting the distance short between them until they were nearly chest to chest. Her fingers caressed his shoulder, the tips dancing over the slim curve of his slight build, not as broad as Vukasin's but still sturdy. He felt a shiver race down his spine as her fingers curled into the stray strands of his hair that fell in haphazard waves over the nape of his neck.

"I…. really should wait for Visnja." Vincent's words were sluggish and drawn thin over his lips. He bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood from his teeth when he realized what was happening. His wariness was turned towards her husband but the woman before him was the Male Kinn of the breeding pair.

He struggled to tear his gaze away from her but when he finally felt as if he obtained some leverage, her hand would caress the side of his face and direct them right back in line with her inviting gaze. "Come with me, Mr. Bonner. Your Visnja will be alright." She leaned in and brushed her lips against the curve of his ear. The hot breath tickled his considerably warmer skin as her hands trapped him in a deceptively strong embrace. She pulled him along, fingers locked around his as he was guided towards a back entrance of the building often used by the servants to enter and exit unseen.

Her husband trailed dutifully behind them. The night air was a refreshing change away from the stuffy haze that had quickly become the party. Vincent's relief was accompanied with the sudden freedom to breathe unhindered by the smokescreen of their fellow guests. Every time he tried to pull away, the woman would tug him closer and hold him still as she murmured tender praises and little white promises full of deceit.

The snares she laid across his mind rendered his thoughts wayward and easily fractured, interfering with any attempts at coherent thinking or any form of focus. He closed his eyes to fend off her trance but she forced him to obey her barbed words and the tantalizing touch that drew him towards her.

"All will be well soon, Mr. Bonner. I would like you to join my family." She purred into his ear, teasing sharp fangs against the curve of cartilage and drawing a droplet of blood from the lobe. "You're different from others." She murmured.

Vincent didn't even notice when his back was shoved against the brickwork of the building between alleys. They were a generous distance away from the back exit and tucked around the corner, no longer in view of parting servants. The fragile figure hid the powerful frame of an aged and experienced Kindred waiting to pounce. Her tongue suckled on the spilled blood that dripped from his ear as she allowed another _accidental_ fang to slip and dig into the flesh.

"I can't Miss. M' sorry. I need to get back to Vuka. My- uh...Vuka needs me." He stammered out. She looked mildly amused as Vincent pressed against the invisible ropes she slung and looped around him as if he were some errant calf racing around undeterred. She pulled and Vincent resisted harder. She dragged at him and held him firmly against the wall as she pushed and he shoved back against her mental assault.

"You _will_ come with us Vincent." She asserted sternly. Her voice rising in volume as if it could silence every other radical thought of rebellion that surged through his mind. Vincent winced as pain burst in the back of his skull as he shook the demand off.

"Vuka. I stay with Vuka. I don't go anywhere without Vuka." He mumbled, repeating it like a mantra to avoid the hooks she was attempting to sink into his tender flesh. 

"Who is this Vuka?" She frowned at him now, taking a step away as Vincent cradled his head.

"Vuka is my Visnja. Vuka is mine. And I am Vuka's. Not _yours._ " He ground his teeth as she shoved against him. Vincent groaned and squeezed his eyes shut as he lifted his arms protectively around his face. The force of her attack felt more physical than psychological, leaving him unsteady on his feet. He slumped against the brickwork as the Kinn's husband reached out to take his right arm. His hand fished out a silver vessel from his jacket pocket that Vincent realized was a syringe. He batted the man's hand to shove it away which caused another ripple of pain to expand in his skull with building pressure until it felt as if his ears were going to pop.

"No!" Vincent protested with a whine.

"Silence!" The woman hissed as she urged her partner to continue.

"I can't." The man growled as he fought with Vincent's refusal to cooperate. "I'm going to have to bite him."

"Damn it." She shook her head. "I can't make him submit. What is wrong with him? If I push any harder, I'll break him and _she_ will be furious."

"Then let me bite him and we won't have to worry. She'll have her new subject. He's different from the others. Smells sweeter." The husband interjected as the pair bickered and lamented.

"At least take me out to dinner first." Vincent chuckled as Mr. Hartford gripped him by the front of his lapels and pinned him against the wall. His knee braced against Vincent's thigh to keep him from slipping away as he peeled back the collar of his shirt. "I'd advise against biting. It's not polite behavior in company." He slurred.

"What?" The man looked up to glance towards his wife. Their nostrils flared before a large weight barreled into the man from the shadows. It wrenched him away from the sniper as the pair hit the ground hard. Vincent noticed the red velvet skirts and the dark polished wood that fell away to roll towards his feet. He bent over, shaking the cobwebs from his thoughts and he drew the handle away from its sheath and brandished the blade hidden inside his cane. He leveled it towards the woman who hissed with all four fangs bared.

The man's cries were cut short in a wet gurgle as Vukasin's teeth ripped through the jugular and sprayed black blood across the front of his dress. The kindred's feet kicked wildly to find leverage against his attacker but failed to secure it before Vincent's blade severed his head from his body. 

Vukasin rose up with a snarl on blood soaked lips as he slowly approached the woman. " _Mine._ " His lips curled back flashing sharp blood stained teeth.

"Meet my darling wife, Visnja." Vincent leaned against the wall for support as he wielded the blade towards the woman. She took a few cautious steps back. Her gaze locked onto Vincent's, shoving her intentions into his head and dragging an agonized groan from his lips. "Vuka!" He hissed through his teeth as he buckled over and dropped his sword to clutch at his scalp.

The Serbian pounced on her without hesitation, claws ripping through the delicate satin gloves to tear through her chest. The indigo gown she had been wearing was torn down the front as Vukasin pinned her slight frame to the ground. The Kindred slashed at the hunter, catching his side with her own steely claws to pull shreds of his gown away. Vukasin's sharp canines dug into her throat as she screamed and bucked to force him off of her. Her terror died down to wet squelching sounds as the Serbian man separated her head almost cleanly from her body. He finished the job by snapping the spinal column completely away with his bare hands.

Vincent watched from where he knelt, inspecting the bloody mess they made here. He was thankful the party was too loud for anyone to overhear the distress inside. He sat up and collected the fallen vessel from the female Kinn that tried to bite him and searched the body for any useful information. That came up empty handed. He slumped against the ground and pulled his cane back towards himself, using the back of the Kindred's jacket to clean the blade, he slid it carefully into the sheath and sighed.

"You alright, Vuka?" Vincent called, inspecting his friend as he strolled towards the sniper. His dress was completely ruined, the entire front had turned from red to a vile black with a sour almost bile like odor clinging to it. It made Vincent wrinkle his nose as the Serbian extended his hand to help him up. Vincent accepted it and used the cane as additional leverage, smiling in approval as Vukasin caressed the side of his face and searched him for any sign of injury. 

Vincent offered a reassuring smile as his own gaze lingered expectantly. His brows narrowed in a frown as his fingers found their way to Vukasin's exposed throat where four punctures sunk into the warm almond skin. "You've been bitten. Which one bit you?" His fingertips traced the marks just above where his Aunt's necklace rested. It was a little stained by the mixture of red and black blood that smeared Vukasin's neck and coated the tips of Vincent's fingers.

"I am vell, Vinnie." Vukasin assured as he pulled the sniper closer. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little dizzy. She really got into my head." He mumbled. "We need to find Bishop. Get this mess sorted out."

"Da." Vuka agreed as he supported Vincent with a strong arm gripping his bicep.


	6. Chapter 6

"Hold on lads." Bishop urged as he helped the two men down from the bed of the lorry. Vincent was first as the chaplain offered a sturdy arm to steady him when he jumped down. Vincent nearly keeled forward when the world started spinning around him. He held onto both of the larger man's shoulders and started to tip towards him. "It's alright. O'Connor will help you to Dr. Romily's." He urged.

Vincent nodded and looked up as the massive man approached around the side of the truck. A firm hand held onto Vincent as he started to ease the sniper towards the side passage into the Osraighe courtyard. Both stopped and turned to inspect the bed of the truck when they heard cursing from Bishop and the sound of furious gagging. They glanced back in time to see Vukasin lose the contents of his stomach all over Bishop's pant leg as the Serbian man groaned and retched up the black blood of the Kindred. 

"Dammit Vukasin! What have we told you about eating Kinn?"

Bishop's question went unanswered as Vukasin groaned in misery with a pitiful and pale look on his face. Vincent had wondered how he was doing on the ride back. He looked a bit green around the gills and had started drooling and huffing every few minutes as he adjusted between rough bumps in the tight streets.

Between Bishop and O'Connor, they managed to wrangle the two men into Dr. Romily's office where the man could tend to their troublesome duo. He checked on Vukasin first, fretting over the hunter as he growled under the doctor's touch. 

"I'd warn you against growling at me Mr. Babic. You are hardly past your puppy years and will be scruffed accordingly should the need arise." Dr. Romily warned as he lifted the man's chin to inspect his bite marks. "I'm going to need to draw a blood sample to ensure the venom isn't causing any problems in your system." He lightly informed as he moved to provide the man with a bucket to empty his stomach into. 

Vukasin fussed when the doctor attempted to draw the blood, forcing an inhuman growl of warning from his chest towards the fretful younger hunter. Vukasin submitted though Vincent figured it was only due to his miserable state as he clung to the bucket and stared at a fixed position on the floor. Once the doctor was finished, he set the sample aside on a tray at his workbench and returned to check on Vincent. Both men took up the only two beds in the infirmary at the moment, tucked back in the corner where the privacy curtain was drawn halfway.

"Look up." Dr. Romily directed as he inspected Vincent's eyes for any signs of head injury. His stern gaze furrowed in concentration. His fingers palpated his scalp for wounds but only found a tangled mess of curls that was only typical for the Italian man. His line of examination led to the blood dried on his ear. "Did they bite you?"

"The Male Kinn did. She was feisty and didn't take kindly to being told no." Vincent hissed as the world tipped and his head swam again. He cradled his skull in his palms as he willed the migraine away.

"You resisted her will." It wasn't a question but Vincent gave a slight bob in confirmation. "You know how dangerous that could be in your condition." Dr. Romily warned.

"I know but would you rather I let them do as they please?" He hissed through his teeth as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. "They were trying to inject me with this. I didn't let them." He produced the silver vessel the Female Kinn had been carrying earlier in the evening. "Not sure what's in it but figured you'd like to analyze it."

"Indeed. Thank you. Good work Mr. Bonner. But this does not excuse your recklessness." Dr. Romily chided. "I will give you something for the pain and in the meantime I want you both to stay here and rest. I will send Mrs. O'Connor to fetch a clean pair of clothes for you both."

Vincent nodded as he sat back on the bed and watched the doctor set the syringe beside the blood samples to be analyzed later. He returned a moment later with the medicine as he urged Vincent to take it then disappeared to find Gertrude. It wasn't long before she returned and helped them both change and clean up. Vukasin was hardly any help as he heaved into a bucket and whimpered as his stomach protested the horrid black bile. 

Gertrude drew the privacy curtain around the corner to conceal their beds in darkness so they could sleep through the morning light that pooled into the front windows of the infirmary. In the brief privacy, Vincent slipped out of his bed and padded barefoot across the small gap between their beds to clamber up into Vukasin's. He had stopped retching now, the bucket abandoned on the nightstand as the younger hunter huddled under the blankets for warmth and comfort. 

Vincent climbed up onto the space to lay beside him, pausing to inspect the bandaging that covered his neck where the blood had been cleaned away by Gertrude. The thin white shirt and cotton trousers he wore was damp, clinging to his sweat soaked skin. He adjusted the blanket around them both as he sidled up beside his friend. Vukasin adjusted to lay his head against Vincent's shoulder, his aqua eyes squeezed shut as he sniffled and shivered through the chills that racked his body.

"Ya know, I thought wolves were supposed to be smarter than that. There are just some things that don't belong in your mouth, Vuka." Vincent teased lightly, brushing his fingers through the waves of long black hair now freed from all the pins and ties that kept it styled neatly.

Vukasin opened his eyes to shoot a half hearted scowl in his direction. The heat was absent. Vincent wasn't sure if it was due to his sickness or not but Vukasin submitted under the tender touch and playful jabs. "I should have let them eat you."

"Nah, you'd miss me too much." Vincent chuckled as the Serbian rolled his eyes. 

He threw an arm over Vincent's chest and he mumbled. "Shut up. Pillows don't talk."

Vincent smirked, resigning himself to offer such a rare opportunity. He conceded to silence and closed his eyes as they settled into the comfort of one another's presence. That silent reassurance that they both survived another fight and they could live to fight another day. Only now, when all was calm, could he fully assess just how dangerous their mission had become. It's not to say it wasn't a risk to begin with but this evening had turned into a chain of unforeseen events they weren't able to anticipate. They faced a distinct lack of information and, had it been a different pair who had gone in their stead, they may not have survived. That wasn't a statement to stroke their ego, of course.

Vincent had faith in Vukasin's skills and abilities as a werewolf to know he would follow them out and he would be prepared to fight. They had planned their course of action but had Vukasin been a moment later, Vincent wouldn't be here right now, or if he was he'd be a mindless vegetable shattered by the mind games the Kinn forced him into. If she had pushed a little harder, had forced his hand a little more, he could already feel his mind bending beyond its limits, frayed and ready to snap at the lightest touch. He knew he would be a goner had Vukasin not intervened and he would admit, he was scared. But falling into that pit of despair and self doubt never helped anyone.

Vincent had to believe in Vukasin's skills and the test of their own shared experiences on similar missions to know he could rely on him to pull through. Even now, as the man laid by his side, Vincent trusted that Vukasin would remain by his side and always have his back which only further proved to be a bittersweet acknowledgement. His time was growing short. His life was slipping through his fingertips and when the final grain of sand falls in his hourglass, Vukasin would be left completely and utterly alone. It caused an ache in Vincent's chest in knowing the inevitable fate that would surely claim their friendship and he feared for the sake of the younger hunter.

His fretful melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the quiet murmur of voices. Vincent opened his eyes as he inspected the shadows outside the curtain. A few seconds more and it started to shift, parting to reveal a pair of concerned blue eyes from the Osraighe leader. Finn peeked inside, his raven hair mussed up from fretful combing with his fingers, sprawled across his forehead in messy bangs as he noted the empty bed before his gaze fell on the pair cuddled together. Vukasin was sound asleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest was punctuated by the soft snores that entered the quiet air of the infirmary. Vincent lifted his free arm to hush the Irishman who gave a sheepish smile of understanding. 

"Just checking in on the pup. You two had one hell of a night. How ya feelin?" Finn whispered. 

Vincent expected as much. The command staff of Osraighe had one peculiar secret they all shared, well aside from O'Connor. Bishop, Cormac and Romily were all werewolves. The only other wolf outside of the command staff was Vukasin who, after the required health examination upon joining Osraighe, was discovered to be just barely out of his puppy years. Despite being twenty-eight years old in human years, he was still just a baby compared to the three older dogs that sniffed around and chastised the young hunter and his mischief. Of which, Vincent gleefully encouraged. Despite his young age, Vukasin was a lone wolf when he arrived at Osraighe after fleeing Austrian occupied Serbia with the rest of his people. From what little Vincent had gathered, the only family that he had left at the time was his Bako and Vukasin had quietly admitted that he lost her during the long march.

Vukasin was a growly, unapproachable, volatile figure that scared most people off. He was quiet, rarely spoke to anyone other than Cormac or Bishop and that was only after he realized they were both like him; werewolves as well. He had been raised to live like a human and so he was always just a little bit awkward with the rest of the Osraighe pack. But that didn't stop the higher ups from coddling the young pup in their midst and chasing after him with panicked glances and nervous paws.

Maybe that was why they got along so well in the end. When O'Connor assigned them as bunk mates together, it was assumed there would be a fight on the first night. By the end of the week, the pair were inseparable and Vukasin had opened up more around Vincent than anyone else in the Osraighe pack. Cormac acknowledged this strange turn of events and kept the two problem children in his ranks close at hand.

Somedays Vincent can see the doubt in the man's eyes when they send the pair on missions like this. He can see the fear, no matter how cleverly Finn tries to conceal his true feelings. He's a good leader and he takes good care of his men, but sometimes the inevitable strikes and loss is part of that dark equation. It makes them all question if the cost is worth it in the end?

Even now, he could see it, that pained look in his eyes as he examined the two with scrutiny. As he inspected the bandages and the rough appearance of Vukasin. Vincent knew that Dr. Romily reported directly to Finn when he left them in Gertrude's care. It was standard protocol but even if it wasn't, Finn would still be lurking in the infirmary, fretting over all the men that end up wounded or ill. It's in his nature.

"M'fine. Just a headache really." He brushed it off, glossing over the little details he was certain the Doc already elaborated on in full detail and probably with a tired and annoyed expression pinching his features. "Doc wants Vuka to stay a few days."

"I know." Finn assured. "I should probably let ya get some rest. If you need anythin, anythin at all just let me know. I'll be waiting on Dr. Romily." He tossed his head back over his shoulder towards the doctor's workbench. Vincent offered a knowing smile and nodded.

Finn lingered awkwardly for a moment before slowly retreating back to let the curtains slip shut behind himself. The shadows of his footsteps remained on the other side before Vincent heard the boot steps head towards the opposite side of the room accompanied by the groan of the doctor's old wood chair.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"Something feels off." Vincent mumbled to himself as he fiddled in the courtyard with his rifle. He had the pieces laid out across the wooden table as he cleaned the barrel and disassembled it to inspect for any rust or hidden damage. He serviced it regularly but with Vukasin still in the infirmary under the critical eye of Dr. Romily and Cormac, Vincent found himself with nothing to do as he waited for an assignment from O'Connor.

He had a strange creeping sensation curling at his spine that he couldn't quite shake. The feeling had lingered the night before as they were leaving the party in the lorry but he brushed it off as caused by the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the disoriented state he had been in. But now, he felt that itchy sensation that accompanied eyes on his back and he didn't like it one bit. He scanned his surroundings with a cautious glance and shivered as the muscles in his back spasmed in agreement that  _ something  _ wasn't right. He kept his eyes peeled as he pushed the cloth through the barrel, cleaning all the debris out. The smell of the oil was grounding even if it did give him a little bit of a headache.

Dr. Romily had him drinking some bitter medicinal tea mixture he concocted to help ease any effects from the Kinn's hypnotism. It made him even more restless than usual, like a good kick in the ass as he fidgeted and bounced his leg against the dirt. He already cleaned what little mess remained in his and Vukasin's shared room from when they left. Gertrude had cleaned the outfit he wore the night before and salvaged some of the pieces of Visnja's attire. His Aunt Lily's necklace and Vukasin's mother's ring were among them. Before they left, Vincent, being the one without any tears or blood on his clothing, returned to the party and gathered their belongings from the butler, including their hats and Visnja's fox fur shawl. He politely thanked the man before joining the others at the truck a little ways down the street.

Bishop and McKinley had already gutted and set ablaze the two Kindred, destroying their remains until nothing but ash was left behind.

"Oi Bonner!" Vincent nearly dropped the rag he was using to polish up his rifle. The parts had been dutifully replaced to their respective positions, building a pretty little thing known as a German Gew 98 Mauser rifle. The stock had  _ FRAULINE  _ scratched into it. Yes, he was aware it was spelled incorrectly but it was his baby. Which he stole off a German sniper he killed in '16 not long after he left Linghem. The scope was fantastic and he adored it more than the British made rifles they offered him when he enlisted. He managed to sneak it back home after he was discharged and has been killing Kinn with it since.

And he was very tempted to shoot the  _ other  _ type of parasite that made his life a living hell more often than not. He tore his gaze away from the weapon to address George MacAvoy, a bonafide pain in Vincent's ass since day one. He was a Scotsman with a bug up his arse about everything Vincent did. To be fair, everything Vincent did was a hell of a lot better than any half witted bullshit MacAvoy could come up with.

He was a burly brutish man, built broad and stocky but short. He barely came to eye level with Vincent and liked to think he was hot shit as he skulked around Osraighe like the rat he was. Well, Vincent takes that back. Calling MacAvoy a rat is an insult to Francach and he actually likes Francach. The man was missing two of his teeth as he spread his lips in a greasy grin. His beard was patchy and unkempt, an unusual look for the Osraighe men since both Cormac and O'Connor pushed for a tight and tidy ship but MacAvoy squirmed through the cracks inevitably. Vincent supposed they felt bad for the man since that pitiful beard was about the only hair he could manage to sprout on that big head of his. The smooth bald top was a nice sun reflector in the Summer and about the only genuine use they were getting out of the Scotsman.

“What do you want, MacAvoy?” Vincent scowled at the man as he meandered towards the bench. The sniper set his rifle aside with the abandoned polish rag lying beside it.

“Herd you and yer howlin bassa got fecked over lass night.” MacAvoy prompted. “Scabby mongrel couldn’t keep his erse to himself.”

MacAvoy was not a bright man in the slightest and was what most Englishman would call a  _ yokel.  _ Which given that Vincent grew up a yokel himself, was considered a stretch, but MacAvoy was the bad end of a yokel; a sheep shagging bloody wanker of a man. Even that was far too kind of a description in the end, but the moment the dumbass opened his mouth to slur and slander Vukasin was when Vincent dropped the barbed words he could have whipped his way. No one outside of the command staff and Vincent knew of Vukasin’s true lupin identity. MacAvoy wasn’t talking shit about Vukasin’s werewolf genes but calling Vincent’s best friend a filthy mutt simply because he was an immigrant.

His blood boiled. He tipped his head and stepped towards MacAvoy before raising his elbow in a short quick snap against the side of his face. He heard a resounding crack as bone connected and blood spilled between MacAvoy’s lips as the man started on another litany of slurs aimed at the pair, one in particular as a derogatory statement towards the feminine appearance that the pair shared and their less than heterosexual tendencies by MacAvoy’s standards. Buggery was a punishable crime in London but being a loudmouth shitestick was completely legal in polite company.

“Say one more fucking word and I’ll break yer fucking jaw you piece of shite!” Vincent hissed as he stepped into MacAvoy’s space to land a fist into his stomach. The Scotsman countered with a meaty fist of his own as it struck the side of Vincent’s face, jarring him a bit as his fading headache came screaming back to the forefront of his mind. He grappled MacAvoy by the front of his shirt as the bulkier man snatched at his wrist and twisted his arm at an awkward and painful angle, forcing his elbow to bow the wrong way. Vincent drew his knee up into the soft tender space between the other man’s thighs and ground the curve right into his genitals, dragging an irate scream from MacAvoy.

“Ya Jessie-”

MacAvoy’s train of thought halted as Bishop approached from behind and placed the offending Scotsman into a headlock. He dragged MacAvoy back, the snarl ripping through his ear in warning to let go of Vincent. “MacAvoy!” Bishop barked, jarring the man until his struggles fell still.

“Strother.” MacAvoy greeted with bloodied lips parted in a sneer. “Me n’ the lad are jus’ scrappin.”

“Bollox.” Bishop growled. “What did O’Connor tell ya?”

“Tae git the store room cleaned out.”

“This doesn’t look like the store room, does it?” Bishop pressed, his forearm tightening against the curve of his throat causing the man to gag as the muscle of the chaplain’s arm flexed against his adam’s apple.

“Gyack!”

“Get out of my sight, MacAvoy. You’ll be speakin with Cormac before the end of the day to explain yerself.” He let go of MacAvoy and shoved him hard enough to make the man stumble. His face was already streaked in bruises and swelling along his jaw where Vincent’s elbow connected with it. He crooked it with a wince and grimaced, stumbling towards the back steps leading into their supply room. Vincent tested the motion of his arm in little stretches as he glared at the ground. His eyes narrowed in a squint against the harsh sunlight that peeked through the clouds. A perfectly good afternoon was ruined by that piece of dog shite on the bottom of his boot.

“Bonner!” Bishop’s words were stern as he drew the sniper’s gaze. He noted the displeasure in the chaplain’s eyes as he inspected the banged up appearance of the man. “What the hell were you thinkin?”

“He was talking shit, thought I’d teach ‘im a lesson ‘bout opening his mouth without a brain between his fucking ears.” He spat. That earned a swat from Bishop as his palm landed against the side of his face. It wasn’t quite a slap but it also wasn’t a punch, it still hurt like hell and jarred him a little.

“Tighten up that lip.” Bishop chastised with a firm press of his lips. Vincent noticed he was in a foul mood as is, though he wasn’t aware of if the altercation caused it or if it was related to the night before. “What have we talked about? When MacAvoy starts in on you-”

“I can’t walk away when he’s bad mouthing Vuka like that. I don’t give a fuck-” A stern grip on Vincent’s shoulder warned him about his language. He winced and shrugged it off. “I don’t care if he’s talking about me but the moment he brings Vuka into it, I snap.”

“He does it because he knows it gets to you.” Bishop informed. Vincent shrugged again and felt the critical eyes examining his scuffed up appearance. There was a heavy sigh as Bishop squeezed his shoulder again, this time more gently than before and started in a more paternal tone. “O’Connor wants you. Go get cleaned up and report to him. He’s in the kitchen.”

“Fine.” It was short, clipped almost but Vincent wasn’t necessarily in the mood for talking. Bishop accepted it as it was and left the man alone to collect the mess on the work table. Just as Vincent was wrapping up, he caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye that didn’t seem quite natural. He tilted his head to follow it, but the shadow was gone before he could track it. He scowled up at the rooftop overlooking the infirmary for a moment before giving it up for birds flitting around on the peaks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented on this story so far. I really appreciate the feedback. And thank you to Tyrantwache for the wonderful art of the Kindred that you did. It was amazing. For those of you who want to see what it looks like, the link is below. Give them some love! 
> 
> Thank you again so much!
> 
> https://tyrantwache.tumblr.com/post/623936455460388864/just-a-simple-sketch-of-a-kinn-a-vampire-species

It wasn’t a smart idea.

Vincent knew that when he made the precarious climb up to the peak of the less than sturdy rooftop, his fingers grappling to ledges and supports on the exterior of the old Osraighe headquarters. The mixture of old and new wood where repairs had been done during the Summer months, new siding and shingles, new bricks to repair the chimneys and so on. He ignored the threat of slivers as the toe and inner curve of his boot caught the fragile ledges and jutting pieces that were placed just far enough out from the initial wall that he could hoist his weight up on. He was fortunate enough to get plenty of practice in during the war, scaling rickety structures looming fsr higher than this as he obtained an optimal vantage point. Between the barns, church towers and windmills in the countryside, he faced more than his fair share of dangerous climbs.

The Osraighe headquarters was a cake walk in comparison. At least he had less threat of being shot though he wasn’t sure for how long if any of the command staff caught a whiff of his mischief.

“Where the fuck did you go?” Vincent searched the rooftop once he scrambled over the edge, sweat beading at his neck and trickling around his brow from the anxiety inducing climb. He was lucky nothing broke off from the siding otherwise O’Connor would throttle him with his own two hands.

The sniper was at odds with himself. This was the fourth time today he’s spotted an abnormally large shadow lurking along the rooftops, too big to be considered a bird and too quick for anything else that he could scrounge up as an answer. It moved with purpose, always just on the edge of his vision. It darted quickly the last time he spotted it, clambering over the peak to avoid his detection but he swore he had it this time. He searched the neighboring rooftops for any sign of footpaths or easy to jump gaps between the streets and alleys but came up empty handed. At least for a human, it would be near impossible to move about without falling. A Kindred on the other hand would have no problem. Maybe, and this was a stretch, _maybe_ a werewolf could do it but their physical prowess was often concealed behind their _other half_ which Vincent didn’t expect to find a dog leaping over shingles. The slick uneven terrain would sooner cause them to fall than provide enough leverage to gain speed or precision in their movements.

“Where have you been hiding you little-”

“Vincent Francis Bonner!” O’Connor’s voice boomed like a crack of thunder at his back causing Vincent to jolt in surprise. His eyes widened in shock only to go wider in panic as his body pulled taunt and jumped in alarm. He wobbled, his balance tossed back towards the open courtyard as he flailed to find a grip. He tried to throw himself forward but the momentum caused his boot to shift away from the ledge and keel him back in a blind panic. 

“Fuck!” Vincent flailed, arms outstretched to find purchase to lessen his descent but to no avail. The air rushed past him as he squeezed his eyes shut. He twisted and braced himself as he hit the ground, rolling out the momentum into a heap on the grass. The jolt of pain that rocketed up his legs caused a shout to rip from his chest but was nothing compared to the searing burn in his left arm. He was flattened out on his back as boots rushed towards him from multiple directions.

He declined to open his eyes, already prepared for the disapproving look that would inevitably be awaiting him from O’Connor when he did. He heard the voice of one of the newest recruits, Mackintosh Vincent recalled, shout. “Holy shite, sir he’s bleeding!”

“He does that sometimes.” Another Osraighe hunter informed. Vincent couldn’t place the name to the voice but he was an Englishman at least. “He bleeds more than most people. Even if he’s not injured.”

“What?” Mackintosh blanched.

“He means I get nosebleeds all the time.” Vincent answered flatly, unamused as he peered up and was grateful to be shaded from the sun but frowned when he met O’Connor’s looming figure. “Nothing’s broken, Da.” He offered a half amused smirk at the Osraighe Second and received a deeper scowl creasing the massive Irishman’s forehead as he leaned down to haul him up to his feet.

“What the hell do you think you were doing up there?” O’Connor practically dragged him to his feet by his right arm, mindful not to touch the left. Vincent tore his gaze away to inspect the damage and noted the warmth pooling over the back of his hand and tickling between his middle and ring finger. He had a deep gouge in the exterior of his forearm like a nail tore through the skin. Blood flowed thickly over his knuckles and dripped in big fat drops into the dirt.

“Sightseeing.” The sarcasm was unwelcome but Vincent didn’t care to heed the warning look from his commanding officer. He was a bit disgruntled as the other men stood around gawking, at least half a dozen were gathered to observe the troublesome sniper get reamed by O’Connor.

They would be immensely disappointed though as O'Connor dragged the sniper towards the infirmary. A rumbled out "Return to your duties!" followed as they stalked towards the opposite building.

Once inside, Vincent was steered towards the empty examination table as both Dr. Romily and Vukasin's heads perked up. Vincent saw the doctor's nostrils flare on instinct. His reserved expression hid the beastial nature that calmly prowled beneath. His head tilted as he inspected the gouge in Vincent's arm now currently bleeding all over the tile floor and metal table. He cradled it against his side, staining the dark grey pullover he wore. As Dr. Romily gathered his supplies, Vincent turned to address the quiet padding of the Serbian sneaking at his back to inspect the source of the blood. He hopped up onto the table next to Vincent and sidled up beside him until they were bumping shoulders.

"Vhat happened?"

"I fell."

"Off of vhat?" He nodded towards the debris that clung to the back of Vincent's shirt and the pieces of grass that was ensnared by the mess of curls which he promptly picked out to drop on the floor.

"The roof." O'Connor answered for Vincent, that cold scrutinizing stare like steel leveled on him. It wasn't anger that bubbled below the behemoth man's gaze, no, nobody in Osraighe has ever seen O'Connor truly angry and this trifle wouldn't be the straw that breaks that camel's back. He was concerned, aggravated, maybe a little upset with himself more so than with Vincent. O'Connor was just that type of man, pulling the blame over his back and to carry that burden to save those around him.

"Vhat?" The incredulous question astounded Vincent as he turned towards Vukasin.

"You act as if it's a surprise that I climbed a roof." He blurted.

"Da, but you've never fallen before." Vukasin objected. "Vhy now?"

"Circumstances." Vincent stated bluntly as O'Connor interjected.

"I spooked him."

"It's not your fault Da." He jabbed with an easy smile. His nonchalance lacked any sign of typical distress but was simultaneously very Vincent. He ignored the painful throbbing in his arm as the warmth chilled against his skin. He drew circles with his middle finger across the small puddle on the exam table. 

Dr. Romily frowned as he approached to tend to the wound. "Why were you up there to begin with, Mr. Bonner?" Vincent turned away from Dr. Romily to avoid glimpsing the needle in the man's hand and instead buried his face into Vukasin's shoulder. The hunter was more than willing to play the part of his pillow as they tucked closer. Vincent suspected Vukasin was still unsteady and weak from the Kinn blood that's been wreaking havoc on his sensitive stomach.

"I saw a bird." He hummed.

Neither men were amused but simultaneously not at all surprised. Dr. Romily dismissed any further questions, aware that he wouldn't get a proper answer unless the sniper wished to do so, and instead focused on the task at hand.

"How are you doing?" Vincent murmured, his head bowed close to Vukasin's ear as they leaned against one another.

"Like I've been listening to O'Connor's singing." The seriousness of the statement buckled beneath a crack of laughter from the pair as they watched the aforementioned Irishman's head swivel to scowl at the two.

"Ay!" He barked. 

"You gotta admit, it's pretty bad." Vincent prodded, earning a stern glare from Dr. Romily about him holding still. His tender grip tightened around Vincent's wrist to keep him from shifting away as he cleaned the wound under the bright surgical lights.

Vincent grinned as he recalled the Osraighe Christmas party where the company second was challenged to a drinking match against Cormac, Hainsley, Booth, Jackie and Johnson. Each fell before the skilled and mighty foe that was Osraighe's Great Bear. Their formidable bear, however, had fallen into a sappy and cuddly mood as he scooped his beloved new wife up into his arms, swung her around in an unsteady twirl and began a rendition of what could only be assumed was an ancient Gaelic love song. Vincent says that with the utmost generosity because nobody could make out a lick of what he was saying through slurred speech and tearful eyes, ringing syllables out like the bellows of a dying whale and a wild boar being pinned down by a pack of wolves and simultaneously castrated.

Vincent winced as Dr. Romily started stitching his wound closed, the pinprick of pain mingled with the little jolts and surges up his arm and down into his fingers. He refrained from making a fist and eased through the discomfort. When it was finished, the doctor washed the area down again, patted it dry then proceeded to wrap a clean dry bandage around his forearm, securing it before giving his patient the all clear to move.

"You're not done yet, Mr. Bonner." Dr. Romily coaxed as he returned to his sink to clean the blood from his hands and exchange the supplies to prepare a syringe. Vincent tensed beside Vukasin as he watched Dr. Romily approach with mounting dread.

"Eh, what's that for Doc?" He refused to admit that his voice held a tremor in it as he watched the vessel with wide eyes.

"Antiserum, Mr. Bonner. To prevent infection." He gently patted him on the shoulder in consolation and tipped his head. "I just need to inject it into your thigh, if you don't mind."

O'Connor quietly vacated the room to offer a brief bit of privacy. Vincent's fingers curled into the thin linen sleeve of Vukasin's shirt in apprehension, a silent request for his friend to stay. Vukasin agreed with a silent bob of his head. Vincent worked the belt off of his trousers and shimmied it down his thigh to expose the meat of his leg. Dr. Romily prepares the area with a sterile wipe and scrub the spot with the cold antiseptic. Vincent leaned against Vukasin who casually slung an arm around his shoulders in solidarity, his fingers teased at the mess of curls that fell in a shaggy disaster over his ears.

"This reminds me…" Vukasin started, drawing Vincent's attention away from the doctor's activities.

"What?"

"Remember that time you got shot in leg?" Vincent did in fact remember. It was very hard to forget when Vukasin was the one who shot him. 

"You mean when you used me as a pin cushion?" The arrow had hit the back of his thigh just under his right ass cheek. Vincent couldn't sit properly for two weeks and had to shamble around after Dr. Romily removed the arrow. It was all very unpleasant and very much Vukasin's fault. "For a marksman, some days you can't hit the broadside of a barn."

"You vere in vay."

"How? The Kinn was right in front of you!"

"And your backside vas in path." Vukasin waved dismissively. "Anyvay, this remind me of strange dick."

"What?!" Vincent blurted, turning part way to face his friend with an incredulous gaze. "My dick is not strange! Yours is weird. All wrinkly and shit." Of course of all things for Vukasin to recall, it was the day he found out Vincent was circumcised. A tradition he assumed wasn't very common in Serbia where Vukasin was from. He didn't necessarily ask but the circumstances of the situation at the time meant Vukasin had to assist with the removal of the arrow as Dr. Romily prepared to treat the area. The Serbian man was forced to aid in keeping Vincent still which also meant he got to watch the ordeal as the sniper squirmed, cursed and spewed insults like fishermen's wives go about gossip. He later challenged the hunter and his declarations of how odd his manhood was, which led to an incredibly awkward measuring contest in their bunk room which McKinley had the misfortune of walking in on as they bickered in just their socks.

"Ne." Vukasin declined. "Yours is." He watched with a smug grin as Vincent stalled part way through gathering his retort to shout as Dr. Romily inserted the needle into the muscle of his thigh.

"Holy hell in a handbasket in mid _fucking_ July! Doc!" He went to jerk but Dr. Romily kept a firm hand on his knee to hold his leg still as he injected the fluid of the serum into his leg. Vincent writhed, biting the first knuckle of his right hand until he left dark red indents in his index finger. "Bollox!"

"Baby." Vukasin teased as he gently pat Vincent's back in condescension. Dr. Romily was undeterred as he cleaned the spot of the injection site and patched it up.

"There you go, Mr. Bonner. I'd suggest you rest for a little while in case you have any underlying hidden injuries that have yet to rear their head." The doctor hardly took a step away from the table before Vukasin was dragging Vincent towards the corner bed where he had been nursing his nausea all morning. Vincent managed to finagle his belt and pants back into place and joined his companion in the bed where they could crowd together as per their usual routine.

Vincent assumed it was instinct for Vukasin. Like the way the other werewolves in Osraighe soften despite human expectations. Where one would expect a stern hand and tough love, the Osraighe command staff relaxed, lowered their guard and often leveled with their subordinates, building loyalty, respect and trust among one another. Even O'Connor who was the only human in their staff became a supporting hand and a source of counsel during tough times. It made them stronger as hunters and better as men. 

It was a stark contrast to what Vincent had experienced during the war, as men turned hostile when frightened or pushed to their limits. Where soft hearts presumably got one killed. Vincent missed the rare few moments of rawness shared between a company as they bared their souls before one another over a pitiful fire and some scraps scrounged up from whatever they could reach. With the knowledge that _today could be our last,_ they focused on the past, their dreams, their hopes, the _what ifs_ of their futures and most commonly, what they missed most of home. The most common agreement was family dinners and warm beds.

In Osraighe, he shared that same longing for a home that no longer existed in his early days. A few months passed and it began to fade as he expanded, opened up a little and made a reputation for himself like he did during the war. Only when Vukasin landed as his bunkmate did he truly find the place he felt most at ease. It wasn't home necessarily, but it felt like he found a new one that was just as good. That final jagged puzzle piece finally fit in the right spot and as O'Connor had once described it, _he found the missing half that made him whole._

He wasn't sure if Vukasin felt the same way. Vincent hoped he did and yet at the same time, he dreaded it. The knowledge that in his death, he will be leaving Vukasin to a lifetime of loneliness, of that empty sensation of losing something important that can never be replaced or recovered. It was a pain unlike anything else. One that Vincent became intimately aware of during the war and hoped never to inflict on anyone else. It would seem fate is a cruel mistress as she set the path before them and intertwined their threads to weave together in a way that couldn't be denied.

"Vinnie?" Vukasin's voice was quiet in his ear as the man nuzzled against his shoulder. The warmth of a living breathing body against his eased the tension from his limbs but simultaneously made him painfully aware of the residual throb and aches across his body. Their little corner was darker as Dr. Romily drew the privacy curtains across to offer them some solace while he quietly cleaned on the other side. 

"Hm?" Vincent hummed, tipping his head just enough against the pillow to see his friend's expression.

"You're my favorite brat, you know that?" Vukasin murmured, ensuring to glimpse the sniper's gaze and capture his attention completely. Vincent ignored the odd nervous fluttery feeling in his stomach and brushed it off as the adrenaline settling down. "So stop falling off rooftops."

"You know me, Vuka. I gotta climb to get my shot." He chuckled. "But eh, I guess I could take a little break and wait for you. Gotta have someone to catch me when I fall."

Vukasin rolled his eyes and shook his head at the sniper as he spread a goofy grin at him. "Take bath first then ve'll see."


	8. Chapter 8

"Puppies? What puppies?" Vincent was confused as he stared at Vukasin in disbelief. They were currently sitting across from each other, Vincent's legs folded under himself as he was hunched on the end of the bed with his meal plate. Vukasin's was balancing in his lap where he sat propped up against the pillows. His fork poked at the food, pushing it around thoughtfully as he contemplated the integrity of his digestive system. The Serbian offered a small smile towards the Englishman and hushed him.

"Heard Doktore Romily. She's having puppies." Vukasin repeated. The 'she' in question was O'Connor's wife Gertrude. Apparently while she was helping tend to Emelia, Dr. Romily quietly informed her of the slight change in her _presence_ that he had detected. Vukasin had just barely heard the information while Dr. Romily politely informed her of the situation and inquired about her health. Vincent had only heard a few snippets but he assumed it was basic health questions and decided it wasn't his business to snoop.

Now it all made a bit more sense to him. Though he wouldn't necessarily describe them as _puppies_ since O'Connor wasn't a werewolf but Vincent understood the gist of what Vukasin was saying. He was excited for the couple nonetheless. His enthusiasm was mild as he prodded the food across his plate and swapped a few pieces with Vukasin. Between the two of them, they barely emptied half their meals which would no doubt draw concern from Dr. Romily and O’Connor at their absent appetites. Vukasin had a reason, he supposed. Vincent glanced towards the cleaned out bucket Vukasin had been using to empty his stomach into all day. The nausea came and went in swells and bursts that debilitated the man into a trembling sweaty heap wrapped up in the blanket haphazardly coiled around his limbs. His fingers fisted into the fabric as he shivered against Vincent all afternoon.

The sniper placed a comforting hand against his back and offered a few brief words of consolation. He couldn’t imagine the misery his friend was going through but he was sympathetic to the plights of illness and their torturous yet sneaky approach when all seemed calm and safe. Eventually they gave up on their meals and set the trays aside on the table before crawling back into the comfort of the blankets. Vukasin laid against Vincent’s shoulder, his head tucked up under his chin as the sniper looped an arm around the werewolf and gently rubbed his back in slow up and down motions. His fingers traced the curve of Vukasin’s ribs and brushed down the length of his spine until he lingered against the small of his back before rising back up in tender streaks. Vukasin sighed against him, the warmth radiating off of the Serbian man was rivaled by the thermal layer that seemed to flow from Vincent when his condition flared and his complexion was riddled with dark red splotches and irritated patches.

“Vhat vrong?” Vukasin mumbled against Vincent’s chest, his voice dropped lower as he lifted his head to glimpse his friend and get comfortable again. “Too quiet.”

“Nothing.” Vincent sighed. “Just thinking.”

The questioning tilt of Vukasin’s head extended the request for an elaboration on the subject. It was a quiet nudge, nothing forceful or demanding. Vincent easily conceded to the prodding as he combed his fingers through the disheveled curls that bounced into his eyes. They sprung back into their messy collection across his forehead despite his best effort as he tipped his head back against the pillow with a sigh.

“I guess I’m just….well…” His words trailed as he collected himself and considered how to properly word what exactly was troubling him. “I feel like something is watching me.” He stated bluntly after an extended pause.

“Something like?” Vukasin inquired.

Vincent shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. I thought I could catch it when I spotted it on the roof but it eluded me yet again.”

“How long?” The question was easy for Vincent to answer.

“Since we fought the Kinn at the party. I thought I was just anxious after the fight but it comes and goes. I can feel the eyes on my back. I’ve seen movement and shadows that don’t belong.” He shook his head. “It sounds crazy.”

“Could be Kinn.” Vukasin offered.

Vincent glanced up to meet Vukasin’s gaze, the quiet relief dawning in his eyes as he nodded. “I thought so at first but I can’t quite say for certain.” His gaze dragged towards the curtains as he considered the thought, taking note of the subtle shift that made them sway and the shadow just beyond. His voice faded, the conversation settling into silence as he waited for their elusive doctor to make his approach. Vukasin’s head perked when he noticed their company and turned to inspect Dr. Romily as he cautiously parted the curtains.

  
  


* * *

  
  


"Whatcha got there McKinley?" It wasn't unusual for Vincent to find the young recruit huddled in the back by the storage sheds. He was tucked just out of sight with a table set up between the little out buildings, one full of tools that O'Connor used for repairs or gardening. The other was their dry food stores. Down in the cellar, he kept a room specifically for the pickled and canned goods he would harvest every fall that would get Osraighe through the long winters.

McKinley would often be found tucked in the back working on his own projects, his hands busy with some new toy to tinker with. Normally he would be building light catchers made from broken polished glass he'd pick up on the shoreline along the pier. Mackintosh would pop in and sit eagerly by his side to learn, twisting wire and working twine or leather cords through to cradle each unique piece of blue, green or indigo glass, smoothed around the edges and polished to shine. 

Vincent recalled there were a couple dozen hanging up in McKinley's room, an eerie hoard he made as an obsessive hobby in the weeks following his twin brother's death. Some had seashells or hand carved wooden crosses hanging amidst the glass shards. Bishop had mentioned that at first he was put off by the collection until McKinley woke him up one evening. At exactly noon, the light would stream through the window and McKinley would draw back the curtains and adjust a mirror to redirect the beams to strike the catchers. It would bathe the entire room in colorful explosions of light. 

The young recruit had even shown O'Connor, Vukasin and Vincent the display when asked about it. He was shy at first, shifting awkwardly about the prized possessions he created with what was essentially junk. He stumbled through an explanation that his father had shown him and Charlie how to make things using the glass they'd find along the shore when picking through the rocks. It kept them busy while their father was away at work on his fishing boat.

Today though, he wasn't tinkering with his growing collection of recycled rubbish. At least it didn't look like it when Vincent approached and spooked the younger man. His head whipped around as he jerked in his seat and dropped the tool in his hands. His cheeks burned red when Vincent noticed the cigarette held between his lips. The sniper raised a brow, arms crossed expectantly as he inspected the youth.

"Don't tell Bishop, please." McKinley pleaded quickly, removing the cigarette from his lips as he quickly blotted it out on the bottom of his boot. His face was red with shame reaching right up to the tips of his ears as he squirmed on the bench seat.

"I'm not gonna tell him if ya tell me who got you into it." Vincent asked, his voice dropping to something unusually stern. He wasn't fond of smoking. He despised it more than anything else. The smell made his stomach clench up and that stinging sour taste of bile would edge up his throat as he was shoved back into the trenches surrounded by frightened men puffing on smokes to keep the hunger and nerves away. Their fingers twitching as they gripped their rifles like a lifeline and tilted their eyes to the skies.

Vincent settled in the seat across from McKinley as he watched the recruit fidget with the plier tool between his fingers, staring down at the table top where pieces of metal and broken fishing hooks laid about beside some twisted metal contraption Vincent couldn't make heads or tails of.

McKinley shrugged. "I don't really...um sir-"

"It was Hainsley, wasn't it?" The widened set of eyes gave Vincent the answer when the recruit's head snapped up to stare at him in shock. Scott Hainsley had been in Osraighe before Vincent showed up. He was more of a troublemaker than either him or Vukasin had ever been, mostly because the two boys kept their mischief to themselves. Hainsley had a habit of pushing young, new recruits into making stupid decisions like the time he made Mackintosh drink until he threw up and passed out. The young man was laid up in bed for three days after and couldn't keep anything down but broth and a few bites of bread. 

When Vincent joined, Hainsley tried a few tricks to badger him into some foolish idea or another but the sniper was well aware of it from his early days in the military. He's been taken advantage of for his gullible youth enough already. He wasn't so eager to please like their bright eyed and bushy tailed recruits like Mackintosh, Lindsey, and the McKinley twins.

"Don't worry. I'm not gonna do anything that'll get you in trouble Mary." Vincent assured him with sincerity. Besides, Bishop will be able to smell it when he gets back from his run to the market with O'Connor and Jonesy. When that happens, Vincent's certain McKinley will be sat down and have a very long stern talking to. If there was one thing Bishop and O'Connor did well, it was their lectures. They always managed to make Vincent feel guilty for whatever he did that warranted it. Like disappointing a father figure that he looked up to. Their disappointment hurt worse than any sharp worded anger that could be lashed in his direction and made him feel crummy even hours later.

McKinley looked mildly relieved as he searched Vincent's expression. His lips twitched into a small shameful smile as his shoulders slumped. He twirled the wire cutters around in his grasp and shifted in his seat, the quiet bob of his foot made the table shake gently. The anxious motion was soothed by Vincent's next question. 

"So what is it you're making? Doesn't look like another decoration." It looked more like a torture instrument instead. It was a piece of solid wood with what looked like old fishing hooks that had been straightened out and then bent in a new angle so the barbs were more exposed. They were secured into the wood by little metal loops that were drilled into the piece and fastened. There were six rows of these barbed metal prongs along the wooden rod and at the end was a metal anchor that had a light chain attached.

"I'm not sure yet." McKinley admitted sheepishly. "These hooks are supposed to catch on the target and sink in. I'm not sure how well it'll work to be honest sir."

Vincent flattened his palms out on the tabletop and grinned. "Guess that means we gotta give it a try. When you're finished, we can give it a toss or two. I'll set Vuka's target up. I'm sure he won't mind."

"You sure sir?"

"Yeah. It'll be fun. I'm curious to see if that works."

  
  


It would be later discovered that it did in fact work. It took a few dozen tries as both Vincent and McKinley took turns swinging the chain around to whip into the target. With enough force it would wrap around the makeshift blob like deer that Vukasin would shoot with his bow. The deer would tip on its wooden legs and fall forward as the barbs sunk into the burlap and secured the target. Every throw and spin would elicit a high pitch whirring sound before it sunk into the target. Getting it freed was a hell and a half to wiggle out without tearing the burlap up but that was a good thing when the aim was to snare and secure Kindred from fleeing. They just had to be extra careful not to hit each other.

Vincent stood several paces back to watch as McKinley practiced and noted the large shadow of a black Irish wolfhound that bounded out of Dr. Romily's office with his nose held high into the air. His jaws parted in a woof of greeting as he trotted towards where Vincent leaned against the wall in the shade of the building. The eaves sheltering him from the last shreds of daylight creeping over the peaks and bathing the courtyard in a wash of golds.

"Whatcha doing Cormac?" Vincent greeted, holding a hand out to pat the Osraighe leader on the head. Cormac wasn't at all bothered by the gesture and sat at Vincent's feet to soak up the attention while he watched the young recruit. His head tipped to the side as he inspected the strange weapon then lifted to meet Vincent's palm and pressed a wet nose into the center. Vincent grimaced and wiped his palm on his thigh only for the hound to rise up on his hind paws to stretch, balancing his front paws on the sniper's shoulders. Vincent shuffled back until he was pinned firmly against the wall, gathering his balance he gripped Cormac's shoulders and indulged the hound in some rigorous petting. Cormac panted, tongue lolled out in shameless delight at the additional attention from his subordinate. Vincent could hear his tail thundering against the ground. It reminded him of working with his Uncle Henry as he tended to the hounds they raised for hunting stock.

The encounter was short lived when Cormac's head whipped around with his nostrils flared, chasing a scent on the light breeze that ghosted through the brick walkway. He drew back to land on all fours before padding off towards the gate. He paused to push the latch free with his snout before shoving it open and bounding through the gap.

"What was that about sir?" McKinley drew Vincent's attention away from the empty gate to find the younger man standing with the weapon in hand. He looked satisfied with the end result and its success once they got the hang of it, but that wouldn't stop Vincent from playing with it a bit more. It was possibly the best thing Baby has ever made by far.

"Not sure. Think he's just stretching his paws." He shrugged and held his hands out to the recruit expectantly, curling his fingers in a quick beckon for the weapon. "You got a name for this thing yet?"

"No sir. Not yet." McKinley wrapped the chain around his hand loosely and held the wooden pronged rod by the base to carefully avoid the sharp barbs. "I'll have to think on it."

"If you find one, let me know. I'm curious to see what you come up with. And if you need any help with ideas…." His voice trailed into an amused chuckle. McKinley gave him a peculiar look as he adjusted the newly approved weapon in his grasp. Vincent mused over the thought, McKinley was the youngest member of Osraighe (if the rumors about Francach's immortal nature were true) but that certainly didn't mean he wasn't clever in his own right.


	9. Chapter 9

"Fragarach." O'Connor offered as he reached over to Francach’s little pedestal to give the rat a piece of his gingersnap cookie. The other half was dipped in the warm cup of tea to be consumed by the massive man. Francach delightedly accepted the cookie piece between his paws and started nibbling away at it with an appreciative muffled squeak.

Vincent sat two seats over from the Irishman and watched him with confusion. “Bless you? I think?” His finger circled a spoon around the rim of his tea cup, melting the honey into the warm drink in idle motion. 

McKinley was seated across from him with his own cup poised at his lips before lifting his head in puzzlement towards the both of them. “Sir?” His red hair was neatly combed back and tucked behind his ears, the longer strands curling around the curve to tickle at his jaw. Vincent suspected Gertrude may be on the youth about getting a trim to maintain his tidy appearance.

O’Connor wasn’t at all amused by Vincent’s remark and shook his head. “That weapon of yers, lad.” He prompted, reminding the pair about the conversation they had just been discussing while they waited for Bishop to return from his meeting with Cormac upstairs. “The name.”

“Oh! Yes! Um...what about it?” McKinley carefully set the cup down on the saucer, nearly spilling the contents when it inevitably clinked together. He winced inwardly, pulling an amused smile from Vincent as he observed the frazzled youth.

“Fragarach is a weapon of celtic mythology. It’s called the _Whisperer_ because of the sound it makes speaking to its wielder. It was also said to inflict piercing wounds upon enemies that could not be healed, harnessing the winds to surpass wall and shield.” O’Connor explained. “It is a weapon fit for a King and those who seek justice for the sake of others.”

“What kind of weapon was that?” Vincent blurted, trying to imagine what could possibly do so much. His first though was a battering ram or mace but that didn’t sound right.

“Traditionally, it was a sword.” O’Connor explained. “If yer looking to name it, names have a powerful meaning. Placing one upon a weapon you’ve birthed with your own two hands will bind it to you. A weapon properly named will never fail its wielder.”

“This sounds like a bedtime story.” Vincent chuckled.

“Fragarach you said?” McKinley smiled to himself as he reached for the chain on his belt. He had carefully wound it up and secured it to a strap against his thigh hoping to give it a proper test run this evening. His fingers traced the light weight chains down to the anchoring point where metal met the smooth wood rod. “I like it, sir. Maybe it will like it too.”

“Perhaps.” O’Connor raised his cup to his lips but paused to add. “It’s better than _Kinnsbane._ ” He shot a pointed look at Vincent.

“What? Kinnsbane sounds amazing!” He protested. O’Connor shook his head as McKinley peered over at the pad of paper Vincent was scribbling at earlier.

“What are you doing, sir?”

“Trying to figure out how expensive it would be to travel to America.” Vincent pointed at the page covered in numbers. Mathematics wasn’t particularly his strong suit but he knew enough to get by and make big calculations that were accurate.

“Why do you want to go to America?” O’Connor sat his cup down and pushed it aside as he leaned forward. The sturdier wood frame of his chair groaned at the shift in weight. It was about three times thicker than any of the kitchen chairs at the table, handcarved by O’Connor himself when he apparently broke one under his weight years ago. It was old and intricately decorated as the older Irishman made small additions to it over the years in his free time. It marked his designated place at the head of the table, always across from Cormac with Francach on his left and Bishop on his right. 

“When I served in the war I met this American soldier who was in infantry. Now, I shit you not, his name was May B. Friday. He’s from Kansas or somewhere over there. Said they got this really great stuff that’s like a peanut paste. He shared some with me when we were hunkered down. You can put it on just about anything and it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my entire life.” Vincent rambled off excitedly, his hands held up in enthusiastic gestures.

“This sounds like a joke.” O’Connor pointed out, giving a shake of his head. “Lad, that's probably just the hunger you were experiencing. Even boot leather probably would have tasted good under those circumstances.”

“I don’t know about boot leather but rats certainly were on the menu.” The retaliation was purred out as he returned to his paper. A resounding squeak of tiny protest followed from Francach who was now staring with a fascinating look of displeasure in Vincent’s direction. Maybe he shouldn’t be trading barbs with a rat that has a Four Kill streak. To be fair, it was three vampires and one human and the human was an accident. Or so Cormac said, having been witness to two of the four deaths involving Francach.

“You’re playin with fire, Lad.” O’Connor warned. His stern words weren’t as heavy as one would expect but all of their attention shifted from the topic at hand to glance towards the front door. It parted with a gentle creak as a familiar sunken face peered in timidly. Emelia’s brunette hair was carefully pinned up to frame her high cheekbones and the pallor that made her look so ghostly when she first arrived had been replaced with something warmer and far more human.

She had an older creme dress that looked a bit too big on her slight frame despite the obvious alterations to draw it in around her waist and shoulders. Nonetheless, she looked nice, far healthier and lively. Behind her stood Dr. Romily who gently placed a hand on her shoulder to reassure her with a softly spoken. “It’s alright, Miss. Go on inside.”

O’Connor greeted her with a wide smile, sliding his chair back to rise to his full height as both Dr. Romily and Emelia crossed the living room to enter the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea Miss Emelia?”

McKinley popped up out of his seat to offer her the chair beside him, pulling it out and gesturing for her to sit down. She did so sheepishly, her cheeks filled with a pink blush as she nodded. “Thank you, sir. Yes please Mr….”

“O’Connor, Miss.” He introduced as he warmed the kettle and glimpsed towards Dr. Romily as he gathered a cup, a silent question for the doctor who politely declined with a tip of his head. “This young lad here is Mary McKinley.” He gestured at the recruit before nodding towards Vincent. “And that’s-”

“Vincent Bonner.” Vincent beat O’Connor to the punch as he smiled warmly in her direction. Miss Emelia gave a shy nod in greeting as she smoothed her palms over the front of his skirt and adjusted in her seat to get comfortable. It was apparent when her eyes fell on the beady expression of Francach poised on the pedestal. When he moved, she jerked in her seat, startled.

“Don’t worry about him, Miss.” McKinley assured. “That’s Mr. O’Connor’s rat. His name is Francach.”

“He’s a good boy who minds his manners, Miss Emelia.” O’Connor added as he approached with the fresh cup of tea and set if before. O’Connor returned to his seat, one hand resting on the back of it, not yet making the effort to sit down. “He stays on his table or sits with me. He won’t bother you none.”

“I see. I’ve never met a... _polite_ rat before sir.” She spoke up as she cupped the porcelain to warm her fingers. “I suppose there is a first time for everything. If monsters exist, polite rats can too.”

“I’d say that’s pretty sound reasoning.” Vincent added in casually.

“Are you hungry, Miss? I can prepare you a proper meal.” Seeming satisfied with her care, Dr. Romily elected to vacate the room in a quiet retreat back outside, only noted by the soft click of the front door that stirred Miss Emelia to glance after the sound like a spooked rabbit.

“I could eat a little bit, I suppose.” She tipped her head to glance down at the amber liquid in the cup and smiled sadly at the pearly porcelain. “My apologies sirs, if I’m not very good company.”

“Nonsense Miss.” O’Connor assured with a warm smile, softening his features to appear less like the Great Bear of Osraighe and more like the fatherly figure that doted on every soul that crossed the threshold of the building. “Everyone meets hard times. You’re allowed your weaknesses and there is no shame in that.”

“You’re all very kind, sirs. Thank you so much.” Emelia fiddled nervously with her cup. Vincent watched quietly, his gaze split between the paper in front of him and her closed off posture. Her hands were tucked close to herself, as if she could fold as much of her body into one tight little space upon the chair. Her discomfort was palpable, Vincent didn’t doubt how this must be for a woman of her calibre. From what he recalled of her missing person’s file, she was from a nice family, not quite wealthy but well off enough that she could live comfortably. He supposed that the comfortable lifestyle she imagined for herself didn’t include landing in the care of strange men and being saved from monsters.

She would find no chaperones here to tend to her virtue sadly enough. In saying that, Vincent could assure that not a single man in Osraighe would dare harm a lady or do anything without her expressed permission. Between the command staff alone, anyone who breaks that rule would be dealt a rather harsh and certainly painful punishment. That goes without saying and doesn’t even include all the men who would break bones if someone so much as _disrespected_ a lady’s reputation or presence. Vincent has certainly started a scrap or two over it, and Vukasin has no qualms about removing a body part or three from a man for a lesser transgression.

“Have you met my wife, Miss Emelia?” O’Connor asked as he busied himself in the kitchen, his head cocked as he split his attention between setting a pan on the stove and listening to her response.

Emelia tipped her head up to address the question and looked momentarily puzzled. “Her name is Gertrude O’Connor.” Vincent elaborated. Emelia’s face brightened in recognition as a smile spread on her cheeks.

“Oh, yes I have. She gave me this dress and helped me alter it to fit.” She looked down at it with a fond smile, her fingers brushed over the front as she added. “She is so kind, sir.” 

“That she is.” O’Connor preened proudly. “I’m pleased to hear that. I understand that everythin is so sudden and it can be upsetting, Miss, but know that if you need anythin at all, the lads would be more than happy to oblige.”

McKinley nodded in confirmation. “He’s right, Miss.”

“Aye.” The new voice that entered the room drew the group’s attention towards the steps. Bishop was just adjusting the sleeves on his sweatshirt until they were neatly folded up around his elbows, exposing the celtic crosses that were inked into the inside of both his arms. The tips stopped at the inside of his wrist and the base was nestled against his elbow. Thicker lines filled the border while thinner ones overlapped into infinite knots woven together. “O’Connor?”

“Bishop?” The Irishman greeted, twisting to glance back over his shoulder as his hand dutifully stirred what Vincent now assumed was a soup of some sorts. He hasn’t seen any potatos or the like fall into the pot yet but he assumed O’Connor was just about to get to that part.

“When you’ve a moment, Cormac wants to see ya.” Bishop informed, strolling over to stand behind McKinley. His hand fell to rest on the recruit’s shoulder in greeting, drawing the younger man to peer up at him with bright eyes. 

Vincent noted the way McKinley always seemed a little more personal towards Bishop, even before he lost Charlie to the ambush. Both twins had this magnetic attraction to the chaplain. He supposed it was some weird thing involving their faith, like butterflies flocking to a patch of particularly sweet smelling flowers. They suckle at the nectar of woven words preaching sweet promises of forgiveness and salvation. They never really reached Vincent, even through all the times he was dragged along early Sunday mornings with his Aunt Lily and Uncle Henry, and later to Mass at Christmas with the rest of Osraighe.

Bishop had discussed the topic with him once before in the privacy of their library when Vincent’s more reckless behavior reared its head in the early days. The chaplain respected his stance when he informed Bishop of that _absence_ he felt towards faith. Nothing clicked. Nothing pulled at his soul so to speak and he continued to wander. It wasn’t some deeply harbored anger at God for cursing him with an incurable disease or for the fact that he felt wistless and agonized for a home he never really felt he fit in. He just didn’t _feel_ what others did. When he stared death in the eye, he didn’t even experience fear in his heart or the _what ifs_ that plagued most men. He was numb and that sensation had accompanied him throughout his lifetime. That inability to truly understand. Maybe that was due to his morbid sense of humor or his reckless comedic nature that he layered thickly over the pain he felt day in and day out. It suffocated the loneliness that wedged its way into his heart.

Nonetheless, Bishop acknowledged and understood, but didn’t cease his presence in offering a less religious counsel as a substitute. If only to help Vincent understand and move on from the burdens that dragged him down and the nightmares that plagued his mind.

Vincent’s thoughts broke away from their revery when he heard dainty footsteps approach. Glancing past Bishop, he spotted Gertrude quietly approaching from the front door. O’Connor’s gaze fixed on his wife the moment she swept her way into the kitchen and smiled softly as the Irishman leaned down to meet her lips in a chaste kiss. “Good evening _Acushla._ ”

“Good evening _Lieve_.” Gertrude greeted in return, reaching up to steal the ladle from O’Connor’s hand shamelessly. “You should go see what Mr. Cormac needs. I’ll finish here.”

O’Connor frowned briefly in amusement before his lips split into a broad grin, one large bear paw of a hand resting against Gertrude’s mid back as he brushed his fingers across her cheek to ensnare a wayward lock of brown hair. “I’ll be back.”

“Then shoo.” She waved her free hand, extracting his away with a teasing expression. “Take your time.” He pulled away easily, fitting his broad frame through the narrow space of the stairwell, making quick work of ducking his head to avoid the low hanging beam. With O’Connor gone, Gertrude turned her motherly tone on the rest of the room, offering a stern look towards the trio of hunters. 

“Well? Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” With one hand fisted against her hip and the other holding the ladle like a weapon; Vincent, McKinley and Bishop cautiously vacated the room to head off on their nightly patrol, leaving Emelia behind as the young woman hid her smile behind a polite hand and stifled the giggle that bubbled to the surface.

* * *

  
  


The night was cool as they walked the quiet cobblestone streets. Vincent was relieved to catch a break between the fickle English weather and its marriage to stormy clouds and drenching rain storms. He stretched his arms above his head, securing a pleasant pop between his shoulder blades as the soft thump of footsteps accompanied the otherwise unusual silence. The occasional hound would bay and a skittish feline or two would skulk about, prowling after gutter rats slinking in and out of the refuse that lined the streets and overflowing bins. It was strange going out on a run of any kind without Vukasin by his side, but Vincent was well aware that his friend was still bedridden as per Dr. Romily’s orders. The roster had been altered since their infiltration four nights ago, both he and Vukasin had been removed from the rotation without any real explanation. When Vincent broached the topic, O’Connor stated that it was to give the pair a break. He of course didn’t believe it one bit but to question the command would only earn him an extension on his downtime and a stern reprimand from Cormac.

So he let it go, knowing well that if he played along he would get added to runs like these that would occupy his time doing something far more productive than cleaning his rifle again for the third time or rereading O’Connor’s copy of Romeo and Juliet for the hundredth time. It beat the four copies of Bram Stoker’s Dracula that circulated the ranks on an almost regular basis and the two copies of Moby Dick that was used, more or less, as a paper weight. Judging by the library log, Mackintosh had a Christmas Carol still which Vincent was tempted to bug the younger man to borrow if only to find something new to peruse through that wasn’t bibles, journals, tomes, scripture, old science texts and recipe books. Osraighe’s collection of actual novels was small but O’Connor, Gertrude, Cormac and Dr. Romily occasionally added new novels to the collection to flesh it out for the men stuck on downtime.

Bishop led the group with the recruit tucked between him and Vincent. He glanced to the side and noticed McKinley anxiously thumbing over the rosary beads as they walked. His fingers wound around the bronze cross, stroking the symbol as his gaze drifted in the silence, entranced in whatever dark thoughts it brought about given the shadow that settled upon his soft youthful features. They were tense and drawn into concentration.

Taking a chance, Vincent steadied his pace to walk beside McKinley, his attention fixed on Bishop’s back as they navigated the criss cross layout of streets that were forged into a confusing maze around London. His voice dropped low as he spoke up, prompting the recruit’s attention. "You still miss him?"

McKinley glanced up startled and confused before it clicked and he nodded slowly, looking down at the rosary. "I do. A lot." He let the weight of the item rest against his palm before smoothing it down his chest tucked against the olive green sweatshirt that settled on his shoulders, still a little too big and baggy on his slight frame. The ill fitting clothing only made him look that much younger in comparison.

"That's tough, losing someone like that. It's never easy, especially when it's family." Vincent sympathized. He didn’t lose family to the war but that pain was similar to some extent. He remembered when his Aunt Lily wrote to him during the war about his Uncle Henry’s poor health and then, soon after, his early demise. It hurt, knowing he was a whole country away unable to console her and help her through her grief. She wrote, months later when she informed him that she was forced to sell the farm and move back to Scotland with her sister. Just like that, whatever home he once had was gone, vanished like smoke billowing up from the twisted carcass of a tank. She left him some of his belongings with a neighbor, much of which he recovered, the rest he sold for quick coin. He visited his Uncle's grave, left a few flowers at the base of the headstone and never looked back.

McKinley slowly bobbed his head as he considered the thought on his lips. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if our places had been swapped. Charlie was the better of us. He spoke and people listened. Even God all the times he prayed for help or for change, it would come. The night Bishop and Mr. O'Connor saved us, Charlie prayed. He called out to God and afterwards, he claimed God had reached back to reassure him." 

He paused, shook his head and took a deep breath, fighting back the tears that burned in his eyes with the slowly forming redness. "He was so much better than me. He was genuinely good and he could feel things about the world. He had the _spirit_ with him....then there's me." He released a great breath as his shoulders slumped, his head hung as he gazed down at the cobblestones. His face screwed up in concentration as he wiped at his eyes quickly and forced another breath to fend off the pain that wormed its way up in his chest. 

Vincent could see him struggling, trying to thwart that aggressor that seized his chest each time he thought about everything he lost. His parents, his brother, his home. Yeah, Vincent could sympathize with that ache. Or maybe he couldn’t since his pain had gone numb so long ago that he had a hard time applying what little he did still feel to the people around him. His was hollow, a torrential pit that he fed into the abyss of his own making. He didn’t want to see McKinley fall to a similar fate. The man still had so much life left in him despite his struggles. It was rare in Osraighe and even in the world right now. A fragile innocence that a war waged over half a continent had stolen from the majority of its victims and even the most far removed youths.

Bishop’s voice broke through to both of them, drawing their heads to snap up and meet the holy man’s attention. "There is nothing wrong with ya, lad. God has a plan, he had one for the both of you. Charlie is serving at his side and you're doing your part here." He assured him with a gentle bow of his head as he turned to fully face Vinny and McKinley. "You are twins. You have always had a strong bond and you still feel Charlie, don't ye?"

"I do sometimes." McKinley nodded in confirmation. "When I feel like I'm most alone, I can feel him as if he's holding onto me like we would when we were children after our Mum died." His fingers found their way to wrap around the rosary once more.

"God loves you lad just as much as he loved Charlie but your brother was called home when his time came. Your time isn't here yet. You've a job to do and both God and yer brother will be watching over you." Bishop reassured, a firm hand resting on McKinley’s shoulder as he reached down to catch the younger man’s chin and lift his head up. “Chin up lad. It gets better with time.”

“Yes sir.” McKinley blurted, his shoulders relaxed under the firm squeeze from Bishop as he breathed easily. Vincent couldn’t quite place it, but something about that simple adoration in McKinley’s eyes as he gazed upon the older Scotsman was so foreign to him. He had seen it in the eyes of new recruits during the war only to be replaced by the glazed over expressions as they lie dead in a collapsed tunnel or eviscerated by turret fire. Limbs ripped from their torso as they scream through blood and pain only to choke on their sullen pleas and futile prayers. Even now, he stands in the midst of yet another war, a secretive one but a war nonetheless and he can’t help but be reminded of every horror he’s stood by and witnessed. Will the same fate befall his comrades in this new hell they’ve walked into? Only time will tell.


End file.
